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| Volume 3: A Line in the Sand | Prologue: A Storm on the Horizon |
A SENSE of.... of many things. Future past. Present future. A thousand years in the past and.... now.
G'Kar walked through the corridors and rooms of his newest, and possibly greatest, contribution to the war against the Darkness Returning. It was at times like this that he wished he could walk here as flesh and blood rather than merely as light and sound. Were he not bound to the Heart of the Great Machine he would be here in body, but he had long ago accepted that sacrifices would have to be made, and small sacrifices mattered just as much as large ones.
Babylon 4, he had called it. Only he knew the name. To everyone else who knew about it, it was simply 'The Project', a somewhat foolish and extravagant construction mission set hidden in neutral space. G'Kar had told them as much of the purpose as he felt they needed to hear.
A gigantic space station, a vision of hope and stability. The Army of Light had lacked a solid stronghold for years, as its disparate elements were fractured and torn apart. G'Kar had lost his temple in the G'Khorazhar Mountains to a Shadow assassin. The Minbari, who should have been his greatest allies, were consumed by private wars and public bloodshed, and were now struggling merely to survive. Sanctuary had never been intended for the numbers or scale the Army of Light would need and Epsilon 3 itself was a.... difficult place to be.
Babylon 4 would provide the perfect focus for the Army. A place to train the new Rangers, to co-ordinate activities elsewhere, to serve as a linking point and a place of alliance for disparate factions - the United Alliance of Kazomi 7, the Narns, the Minbari, Bester and his telepaths, perhaps even in time the Centauri and the humans.
The station was not fully completed yet, of course, and it would not be for at least another year, but it was operational, and ready to be used. Already scientists from the Army of Light and various allies were here, helping assemble the database and internal computer systems. The defence grids were ready. The ion engines were operational. Given time, the station would be the perfect stronghold.
Time.... that was the key here.
For Babylon 4 would have another purpose, one G'Kar had first seen eighteen months ago at his acceptance into the Great Machine. One he had studied and observed and learned about in the time since.
A thousand years into the past. One day, Babylon 4 would be sent into the past by the Great Machine, to provide hope for another fragmented alliance against an identical Darkness. One day, but not for a long while yet. Not until it was needed.
Besides, Babylon 4 could not be sent back in time until Valen arrived to travel back with it, and Valen would not return to this galaxy for a long while to come....
There was plenty of time yet. Time to think on the present.... and leave the past for the future.
The Centarum was in chaos. To be fair, it had been in chaos for the best part of a year, since the deaths - in very quick succession - of First Minister Urza Jaddo and Emperor Marrit, not to mention various members of his cabinet. After several months of mourning, and several more months of politicking - a Centauri euphemism for treachery, deviousness, adultery, assassination and general fun - a compromise had been reached. A candidate had been elected, with not quite universal support, but with enough to get him past any troubles. All had been well.
But then the new Emperor Refa had been murdered a few days after his ascension, and now everything was falling apart.
"That is absurd!" barked out Lord Valo, a member of the classic old school of nobility. The unofficial figurehead of that faction, he was often a highly vocal member of the Centarum, as well as one of the most conservative. "We cannot have that.... that.... strutting popinjay as our Emperor."
"The fact is," spoke up Lord Jarno, First Minister under the late, largely unlamented Emperor Refa, "that.... um.... that Prince Cartagia does have the.... um.... qualifications.... um necessary. He is a.... um.... a young man.... um.... well, that is...."
"Oh, go back to sleep," muttered Lord Valo, in what was supposed to be a whisper, but which was still loud enough to be heard by the entire room.
"Lord Jarno does have a point," said the precise tones of Lord Durano. Meticulous and detailed to a fault, he was both highly respected and generally reviled, in equal measure. "Prince Cartagia, much as I hate to admit it, is the obvious choice of the available candidates. He is the only one young enough, healthy enough, intelligent enough...."
"If I may," said Lord Dugari, rising to his feet. The entire Centarum fell silent, not so much out of respect, but because they were waiting for him to start coughing. As it happened, one highly entertaining individual started coughing very loudly, and there was general laughter. Lord Dugari did not look amused, but then neither did Lord Valo.
"If.... I.... may," Dugari said firmly. "Surely the immediate concern is the apprehension of Minister Mollari.... Surely.... Perhaps if we...." The inevitable coughs came and he started to collapse, pounding on his chest.
"This is getting nowhere," Valo said angrily. "How long do we...?"
The room fell silent as one of the most respected, admired and acknowledged members of the Centarum rose to his feet. Malachi, First Minister under Turhan, in what was now being accepted as a golden age - by which was meant a time long enough ago for people to forget what it was actually like, but still recent enough for people to have been alive then. Malachi had left the capital after Turhan's death, amidst rumours of suicide, only to return mere weeks ago, delivering the speech that would lead to Refa's ascension. Few were more prominent, more respected, more influential.
Malachi had also been responsible for murdering Refa and framing former Minister Londo Mollari, but that was a minor detail that he did not see fit to share with anyone else.
"Fellow Lords and Ministers," he began, "if I might make a suggestion?"
Thought did not matter to the woman who had once been Susan Ivanova. Neither thought, nor concept, nor vision. Nothing beyond the knowledge of who she was, and of what she had lost, and of what she would have to do.
Three people she had ever loved. Only three people in the course of her life.
Her mother: murdered by the Psi Corps many years before. Murdered in fact if not in name. Susan had never stopped grieving, never stopped remembering. Her entire life had been shaped by that single event. Once, Susan Ivanova had been asked a simple, straightforward question: 'What do you want?' Her mother's eyes had been in her thoughts as she had replied.
Marcus Cole: murdered by Susan herself. Murdered in fact, but not technically in name. A dreamer who had given up sleeping. An idealist who saw only pain. A lover whose soul had always belonged to another. Susan had killed him - accidentally, but he was still dead.
Laurel Takashima: murdered.... somewhere. Somehow. Susan did not know who was guilty of the deed itself, but she knew who to blame. At least, she knew who was here whom she should blame.
They had asked her the question - 'What do you want?' And she had replied. She wanted to be safe. She did not want to be alone. She did not want to fear the Psi Corps. She wanted to be safe.
He was coming. Ambassador David Sheridan. The one who had replaced her. The one who had damned her. The one who knew something about Laurel's death. The one whose promise had failed.
Susan did not know how she had moved so fast or how she had gathered the weapon. She had not been thinking at all in the days since Laurel had died. She had dwelt only on revenge, only on murder, only on her agonised scream.
"YOU PROMISED I'D BE SAFE!"
She only realised she had spoken those words aloud when Sheridan turned to her, an almost quizzical look in his eyes. A faint smile twitched across his features.
Pain struck the base of Susan's spine and she went down, the weapon falling from her fingers. She could see the guards behind her - how had she not noticed them before? They were ready to kill her.
Oh Laurel, you promised me. You said you'd never leave me.
"No," spoke up Ambassador Sheridan, his immaculate pronunciation cutting through the haze around Susan's mind. "No, don't kill her. I think there may be other possibilities here. Much more interesting ones."
She passed out.
He was crying.... again. It seemed as if never a night passed when the sleep of Michael and Lianna Garibaldi was not interrupted by his cries; high, keening, needing, calling to them.
Lianna sat bolt upright. Beside her, Michael made lightly moaning noises as he too roused. "Not again," Lianna whispered. "Not.... again...."
"I'll get it," Michael muttered, rising from the bed and pulling on his dressing gown. Lianna looked at him and sank back down into sleep. She had not been sleeping well recently, not at all, even on the rare nights there was not a keening interruption. Her nights had been filled with dreams and worries. Horrible dreams, of losing her husband and son, of being alone, of.... of her father....
Michael padded from the room, hoping to let his wife sleep a little more. God knew she needed it. He did too, but he'd cope if he had to. Lianna's attempt to return to work had caused more problems than she had expected. Bester had been up to something recently and his intelligence agencies - including Lianna - were being hard-pressed. And then there had been the baby's illness - just one of those things, but for a moment there....
Michael picked up his son - his son! - Frank Alfredo Kemmer-Garibaldi, and slowly walked into the living room. He was.... thinking. He had been thinking about a lot recently. He hadn't realised just how.... messed up the galaxy was these days. Word of the bombing of Minbar had simply brought it home. He had heard that their atmosphere was being poisoned, the water polluted, the environment destroyed, hundreds of thousands dead. That was humans doing that. His people, people just like him, people with wives and children and homes and hopes and aspirations and dreams.
Before, at least humanity had been able to claim to be the good guys in this war. Now Michael was not sure just who were the good guys.
Alfredo had stopped crying. For some reason he rarely did cry around Michael - only around Lianna. "That's better," Michael whispered. "Give your mother a chance to sleep, eh?" He paused, thinking. "You know, son. There's.... things you should know. I know you're too young to understand them now. Hell, you don't even know what I'm saying, but.... if I say them often enough now, maybe I'll get it right when I've got to say them for real.
"This.... Hell, this is a crazy world, right. Nothing makes sense, and when you think it might, then something happens to wreck it all again. But still, there's.... some things which are right and some which are wrong. Now, good guys are people who remember what that difference is, and live their lives trying to do good things. I'm not saying I've done that all the time, but I've tried. Really. Your mother.... well, she knows how much trying to do good can cost. You see, if I'd just taken the easy way out a long time ago, your grandfather would still be here. But.... that wasn't the way. That was the one time in my life I did the right thing. No one said it was going to be easy, because it ain't.
"But, well.... you've got to be one of the good guys, son. It's not going to be easy. In fact, it's going to be one of the hardest things you'll ever come against, being a good guy. Because.... there's way too many bad guys, way too many people who do take the easier option. But you've got to be a good guy. I think you will, somehow.
"With luck, by the time I'll have to tell you all this for real, there'll be a few more good guys around and a few less bad guys, but you can't count on that. I'm not saying I'm a good guy. I'm just saying I try sometimes."
The baby was asleep in his arms. Michael smiled and laid him back in his cot. He turned to head back to bed, and then suddenly stopped, looking back at his son. His son.
"You've got to be one of the good guys, because there's way too many of the bad. Just.... remember that, even if you never remember anything else ever. That'll do you fine."
Laurel Takashima.
That was it. One name. Two words. That was it.
Welles stepped back from what was known as the Wall of the Fallen. A great, black obelisk which recorded the name of every Earthforce soldier who had been killed by the Minbari. That was the theory anyway. With over a million Earthforce alone dead, such a recording was an impossibility. No, the Wall only recorded those who had died for some purpose, or who actually had family remaining to insist on a memorial.
Takashima had had no family, and she had not been killed by the Minbari, but her name was here anyway. Welles had insisted on it. He was playing a dangerous game by associating himself with her in this way, but Clark distrusted him already, and Sheridan certainly did too.
Another dead. A pawn in a game she had never been powerful enough to understand. Bester would have no regard for her, that was certain. He was gone. Long gone. Takashima had been his pawn, but it had been Welles who had helped him devise the idea.
Too many dead. Far too many dead.
"And there will be more," Welles muttered to himself. There would be a great many more to come.
"We have taken back our fallen base!" announced Councillor Kha'Mak in a triumphant tone. "Quadrant Thirty-seven is ours once more."
He might have been expecting similar shouts of elation, or triumph, or.... anything at all really. He did not receive any of them.
"We are impressed, Kha'Mak," replied Councillor Na'Toth, with an exceptionally bored expression on her face. "We have regained what we lost. Tell me.... is this war at any less of a stalemate than the last one?"
"Of course it isn't," snapped Councillor H'Klo. The Council of the Kha'Ri fell silent as he spoke, not because his words held age or wisdom, for they did not, but because the young Councillor's voice carried overtones of madness and darkness, and a terrible, terrible charisma. "And yet none of you can see.... Why are we fighting? Because our fathers fought, and their fathers before them...."
"Precisely the point," replied Kha'Mak. "Can we ignore their sacrifice.... all that they have given us?"
"And in what way do we honour them? By throwing ourselves on to the same altar on which their lives bled away! And all the while, the true enemy lies in the shadows, waiting."
"The true enemy is the Centauri!"
"With whom we are at a stalemate! They take some of our lands, we take them back, we take some of their colonies, they regain them.... at what cost? How many of our people must die in this foolish war, when another, greater one awaits us?"
Kha'Mak smiled, an altogether unpleasant sight. "Very few," he said. "Warleader G'Sten has a plan.... a plan which will give us not only victory, but the entire Centauri Republic.... beginning with their homeworld. What say you then, fellow Councillors?"
It was Na'Toth who replied. "I would say then, Councillor, that you and Warleader G'Sten have our undivided interest."
There was a soft, comfortable silence in the room. The man capable of inspiring terror and revulsion in so many was sitting back in his chair, hands folded in his lap. There was an almost tender expression on his face. He was watching a woman nearby, who was brushing out her long blonde hair. It had been held in a severe military style for almost a year now and she was clearly enjoying having it free.
Finally Alfred Bester spoke, and the words he uttered carried such longing, such loss, such emotion.... anyone who listened and did not know him would have had no doubt that they were the words of a man in love.
"I missed you," he said. "I missed you so much."
Talia Stoner, née Winters, smiled softly and turned to face him. "I missed you too. It was.... not a good time."
"I can only imagine," he replied. She had spent the last nine months as a spy and operative aboard the flagship of the Resistance Government's war machine - the Babylon. Her success there had been total, and she had been a vital part of Bester's and G'Kar's plans to delay humanity's assault on the Minbari.
But still, the cost.... To have been so lonely for so long. There had been other, minor, agents aboard the Babylon but none of them had been telepaths. Talia had been alone among mundanes, who must not learn what she was. And so she had to be alone. Completely and utterly alone in a way that few others could imagine.
"Still," she said, a renewed - and slightly false - brightness in her voice. "I'm back now. It's good to be back. With you, Alfred.... And with the others. How are they, now? Mary?"
"Dr. Kirkish. Yes." A slight note of irritation crept into Bester's voice. He could not deny that Mary Kirkish was an incredibly skilled archaeologist, researcher and archivist, and a vital asset to his operation here on Sanctuary, as well as to G'Kar's larger one elsewhere. Still, she was a mundane, and as such was as different from him and Talia as a candle to a star.
"She is.... well. I would.... appreciate it, dear, if you would not let her know you have returned yet. She has taken up with young Commander Corwin, of Sheridan's crew. Neither Sheridan nor Corwin is entirely comfortable around me. I do not trust them overmuch. It may just be paranoia, but...."
"Surely you don't suspect Mary of anything wrong? She's been here for years!"
"No! No.... of course not. It is just...." He smiled. "It is just that I.... appreciate you here. Give a man in love his little happiness for a while."
"Only a little happiness?" she asked, teasing him. She was smiling.
"More happiness than could be contained within all the world, my love."
"Charmer." Her voice took on a different tone. "How.... how is Abby doing?"
"Well. Very well. Her talents have not manifested yet, of course. But they will. She is learning fast too. She shows great promise. You would be proud." Quieter: "I know I am."
"I wish I could see her more often. I miss her a lot."
"It has to be this way, love. You know that. We.... we have a duty. All of us do. And our children.... they have just as much of a duty as we have."
She nodded. "I know that. I just wish...." She sighed. "Sometimes I wish this could be easier."
"An easy life would bore you to tears within weeks, my love."
"True. But I could never be bored with you here, Al."
"If only...." he whispered. "If only life could be this peaceful, this simple. This...."
"Mundane?"
He snorted. "True. What is a peaceful life, if not a mundane one? We are the special children, after all. Let the mundanes have their peace and rest. We.... we will have the world." He paused for a moment. "I have been made an offer recently. Two offers, in fact. I am not sure which one to accept.... if I can truly accept either."
Talia nodded. She had been present at one of these offers - although the person offering had not been aware of that. "How deep are your loyalties to G'Kar?" she asked thoughtfully.
"Deep? Not very. We have had a useful partnership during difficult years but now.... It may well be that he needs me more than I need him. I will not let my people be used as cannon fodder in his war against the Shadows."
"And the Shadows themselves?"
"Can I trust them? Can I believe them?"
"And what about the other offer?"
"Welles. Him I am not sure about. There is a.... a strength, and yet a darkness within him." He snorted. "Listen to me.... giving a mundane credit he assuredly does not deserve. I can play them all against each other, my love. Once I have worked out a complete plan, then...." He shrugged. "Thoughts for another day. I am with you again, and I cannot wish for anything more."
He rose to his feet and walked to her side. With his one good hand - ungloved for almost his first waking hour since she had left - he touched her cheek. He seldom missed his useless hand, but now was one of the times when he did. To be able to encircle her face, to touch her with two hands rather than just one.... It was a curse he had been living with for many years, but one to which he could never really adapt.
Still, nature - however cruel and capricious - had not left him without certain.... compensations.
His mind slipped gently into hers. She welcomed him, entwining her arms around his waist.
"I missed you," he said softly into her mind. And.... even more softly, "I love you."
"Londo Mollari, I simply cannot live like this! Running around, fleeing from our Emperor's servants, acting like a common criminal.... and now forced to hole up in the most barren, godsforsaken corner of.... Londo, you are not even listening to me, are you?"
"Yes, Timov.... I am listening. I just find that you are saying little I have not heard before. You think I appreciate having to run around hither and thither? Well, at least we have a chance to rest here for a while."
"Here? Oh, Londo. Are we finally to stop running then?"
"Sooner or later," spoke up the sepulchral tones of Lord-General Marrago, "we will have to make a stand. Whichever forces in the Royal Court killed the Emperor, they are bound to pursue you, Londo. If they did not think you were a threat to them, then why frame you for the crime?"
"A convenience perhaps," Londo muttered, his thoughts clouded. He knew full well that the placing of undeserved blame for the murder of Emperor Refa on his head was not a coincidence. He also knew who was guilty of the crime, and who was also - in all probability - behind so much of what had afflicted the Centauri these past few years.
He just could not admit to himself that it was one of his oldest friends.
"Well, we can stay here for a while at least," spoke up the fourth member of their little band of outlaws. Lennier, Minbari poet and recently one of Londo's best friends. The two of them had been through a great deal together. "That is.... if this Lord.... Dugari.... can be relied on?"
"I always believed that he could," said Marrago.
"He has that regrettable thing called a conscience," pointed out Timov. "My dear imbecilic husband here did Dugari a considerable favour some years back, which is now being paid off."
Londo said nothing. He had always thought Dugari was a man of honour who could be trusted unto death. But then he had previously thought the same of Malachi also.
"Selini is a long way from the capital," Marrago mused. "We should be safe here for a while, but if we are to strike back, we will need help, allies."
"How many of your military will support you?" Lennier asked.
"I don't know. It's hard to say. The Court doubtless considers me either dead or captured by the Narns."
"They were being quite vocal about your.... 'failure' and 'incompetence'," said Timov. "Some speculated that you had deliberately sold out your position."
Marrago snorted. "My men won't believe that. At least I hope not. Some captains might come if I called them, but I cannot afford to draw too many away from our frontiers. The Narns could use this opportunity to launch a counterattack."
"Perhaps G'Kar might be able to help," suggested Lennier.
"No!" Londo said firmly. "This is an internal matter.... a Centauri matter. G'Kar cannot involve himself."
"But.... perhaps Carn might?"
"Carn?" asked Marrago suddenly. "He went missing months ago. With his ship. We thought he'd either gone rogue or been ambushed in some way."
"No," Londo said. "He has sworn his services to a.... higher power. But now.... I think you may be right, Lennier. Carn will be a valuable aid. And maybe...." His mind began to work, the beginnings of a plan germinating.
"Yes, maybe this will work...."
Ramde Cozon, he of high rank and many kills, of direct descent from one who had stood beside Valen in the years before the sin that was not understood, felt his period of peace interrupted. He roused himself irritably as he moved to find his Ramdela and discover the reason for this.
He found the Ramdela in the company of the Minbari representative, the one who had arrived here some days before, injured and in pain. No one could ever accuse the Tak'cha of being an inhospitable race, and as the visitor was of the race that had spawned the Z'ondar, Cozon had happily given food and shelter and safety to this.... Forell. He claimed to believe in Valen's ways and to follow his teachings and, while he did not know the sin that was not understood, he did reveal much of what had happened to Valen's people in recent years.
Cozon had bridled at the general lack of observance of the teachings of the Z'ondar and at some of the heresies being perpetrated by the one who claimed to step into the Z'ondar's place. The making of alliances with the demonic Shagh Toth, the abandoning of the Z'ondar's homeworld - where the first Tak'cha had met the Z'ondar himself - where the Z'ondar had delivered his speech on Times To Come....
And yet, the orders of the Z'ondar were clear. The Tak'cha were not to return to the Minbari until such time as the sin that was not understood was atoned for. That event had not yet happened, although Forell had hinted that the time for atonement might be soon.
"Ramde," the Ramdela said quickly. "It is true, the teachings of the Z'ondar...."
"What is true?" Cozon asked irritably. He was not used to such.... giddiness from his second.
"It is Valen," whispered Forell. "The Z'ondar.... He.... he has returned unto us."
"Ah." Then the time of atonement was at hand. Just as the Z'ondar had said, just as his prophecies had declared.... he would not depart forever, and with his return would come glory, and salvation, and atonement.
"Show me of this," Cozon said, his mind awash with thoughts of the future.
Atonement at last....
Catherine Sakai looked at the set of figures in front of her for the hundredth time, then finally placed the sheet back on the desk before her, resigning herself to their incomprehensibility.
It did not make sense. The whole thing just did not make sense.
IPX had been one of the few MegaCorps to survive the fall of Earth reasonably intact. Admittedly this had only been through aggressive takeovers of other companies, and because of IPX's considerable off-planet resources. Still, the first few years after the fall had been very shaky.
Since then, however, the company had experienced a meteoric rise in power, influence, and especially money. Diversifying from its original purpose of archeological discoveries into arms, exploration and alien technologies, IPX had become the richest MegaCorps in human history, and representatives sat in on meetings of the Resistance Government. Catherine herself had been present at numerous political summits, and had a voice almost as important as any of the Ministers or Ambassadors.
Recently, however, she had been given a more important task. Given directly by the CEO himself, apparently. Not that the fabled Orin Zento had actually given Catherine the task in person, but the memo had his personal seal.
Which made everything all the more perplexing.
Mapping out all the worlds IPX had investigated and recording each and every major discovery was a mammoth task, but not impossible. Records had been kept, even though many of them had been lost on Earth, and Orion. But unless more records had been lost than she thought, then something was seriously wrong here.
She sighed, and wished there was real coffee rather than the revolting synthetic re-caff they had here. Rumour had it that Mr. Zento himself had a sizeable stock of real coffee, but for obvious reasons he wasn't sharing it with his staff.
"Computer," she said tiredly. It was long past midnight, and she was feeling every hour she had been sitting here. "Bring up all the star charts for the Magellan expedition." Mr. Zento wanted the results in a fully complete report in two weeks, and there were not enough hours in a day to manage that without some serious overtime.
The charts came up, and Catherine studied them. Nothing out of the ordinary. A survey of the dead Ikarran worlds, a detailed study of a former Tak'cha colony, a brief inspection of Sigma 957 on the border of Narn space, curtailed by the risk of Centauri attacks and over-zealous Narn bodyguards.
And then.... nothing. For three weeks the Magellan expedition had gone nowhere, examined nothing and generally been absent.
There it was, at last. One of many missing links, but at last she felt she had something.
"Com...." She coughed. She would have to get some decent coffee. "Computer, bring up file Bermuda Triangle." Her own little nickname for the files which hinted at more than she was being told. No less than eighteen expeditions with substantial periods of missing time over a span of eight years.
And all of them had passed through Narn space at some point during their missions.
Catherine exhaled slowly, and pressed up more detailed versions of each expedition, hoping for another link, beyond the Narns. She was becoming more and more convinced that there was something here, something very, very big and very, very secret.
Three hours later, she found her second clue. A single name.
G'Kar.
She sat alone, in darkness, recalling their names in her mind.
She did not know them all, and that irked her, but still, she substituted rough descriptions or nicknames, and that suited her well enough.
All mundanes, of course. There was pleasure in killing mundanes. They killed each other with such lack of regard, so why should she not do the same?
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, feeling her soul ascend above the city. She could imagine the filth and degradation below her. Mundanes. Pathetic children, living their pathetic little lives.
She was different. She was special. She was.... alone.
Very few understood her. Even among her own people she was isolated. Mostly, she did not mind. But sometimes, it was all just a little.... too much.
But only sometimes.
Donne smiled, and began the list of her victims again.
A bargain. A deal. An agreement.
He is ours.
No. Ours.
Why?
It must be this way. Destiny.... the past demands it.
A bargain was struck.
These terms.
What in return?
Name what you desire.
The Minbari are yours?
The Minbari are lost.... to all of us.
The Minbari are yours?
The Minbari are ours.
The humans are ours.
The humans are also lost.
The humans are ours. The Alliance is ours.
The past is ours.
Yes. The future is ours.
Yes.
And the death shall be yours.
....
And the death shall be yours.
.... Yes.