Chapter 1

"WE have come home."
Captain David Corwin, aboard the Dark Star 3, the Agamemnon.

"Let them come. If they believe they are pursuing their own purposes here, then they are sadly mistaken."
President William Morgan Clark, private observation.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

David....
He is dead....
My son. Our son.
David....
I can feel your heart beating.
Live, my son.
Please, live.
"Interesting," said the cold voice. "She's speaking in her own language, or rather.... some dialect of it. It is possible each caste has its own language, I suppose. And yet some things are in English. A recurrence of names, as well. John.... and David. I wonder about their significance. Perhaps...."
"Perhaps you did not hear me, Doctor," snapped another voice, an angry one. "I asked how she was doing, not for an in-depth analysis of linguistic patterns."
She knows these voices, somehow. One of them anyway. The second voice. The last time it spoke to her there had been the same.... anger. The other voice she recalls hearing dimly across a veil of sleep, of drugged anguish.
"Oh.... she's doing well. As well as can be expected anyway. We managed to stabilise her system after the blood loss, but we feel the major damage was to her.... was psychological. Something like that would be a tremendous shock to anyone, of course. It was worse in this case because of.... ah...."
"Because of what?"
"The anaesthetic.... It was not entirely effective. Something in her system we could not account for. Unfortunate, really. We believe she was partly conscious throughout the operation."
"Good God! You mean to tell me she was awake while you were killing her baby?"
"If you want to put it like that.... Unfortunate, really. Still, we could hardly expect...."
"You had all the time in the world to perform all the tests in the world to expect that very thing, Doctor! Did it escape your notice that she is a unique biological specimen? Did it also escape your notice that she is to stay alive.... at all costs?"
"Well.... no, of course. As I said earlier, most of the medical problems were easily resolved. The.... ah.... unusual thickness of the vascular layer of the endometrium caused the excessive haemorrhage, but we managed to compensate for that. A transplant would be difficult.... for obvious reasons, but we are well on the way to developing an adequate synthetic. As I said, the problems are mostly psychiatric. We believe she has willed herself into a catatonic trance."
"Listen to me, Doctor. Forget the jargon. You are a man of medicine. She is a sick patient. You will make her better, and if you do not I will personally have you killed, and your family, and your friends, and your family's friends, and in short, everyone you have ever met.
"Do not fail me in this, Doctor."
"We will do what we can, Mr. Welles."
Welles. She knows that name, but somehow....
.... it escapes her.
He speaks to her again, and this time the anger is gone from his voice, and there is only a terrible sadness. She wants to reach out and comfort him, but something prevents her.
"I am sorry," he says to her. "Oh, Delenn, I wish.... there could have been....
".... another way.
"I am sorry."
She wants to say something, but the words she reaches for are soon gone. A moment later her consciousness recedes, and she is again lost in a world where all she can hear is a heart beating, slower and slower each time.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

There is another who cannot hear his heart beating, for it does not beat any longer. He is dead, and has been dead for a thousand years, lost and alone in his self-imposed prison of darkness and fire. There are others he could talk to, there is a vast land stretching out for miles in all directions had he but the courage to seek it out, but he does not, and so he stays, still, quiet, dead.
Alone.
For a thousand years he has been alone, living always with the ghosts of his past and the spectres of his future. He talks to those long dead, to those he loved, those he betrayed, and those he killed.
He walks deeper into caverns and catacombs, and stops, noticing something wrong about the scene before him. It takes a mere moment to realise what it is. With a sad smile he stretches out his hands, and something rises from the ground at his feet. It is a small shrine, and a candle. With a thought he lights it, and he looks at the words carved on the rock. He cannot remember exactly what he wrote there on that day a thousand years ago, the last day on which he was a warrior, but that hardly matters. He has used new words this time, and it is better. The result of a millennium more experience.
"You understand, don't you?" he says, speaking to someone who is not there. "You understood why it was necessary. I saw it in your eyes as I raised my pike for the final blow. You forgave me.
"You were a warrior. You understood.
"I wonder where you are now. Has your soul been reborn again? Many times over, perhaps. I remember.... something that prophetess said. You remember her, don't you? The woman we found... ah, where was it? Tai'Kondaroga? No, no.... Beiridein? No, not there.
"Delphis! That was it. She was in that temple at Delphis. I remember now. She said the two of us had.... a karmic link. Our souls would be bound to each other through countless lifetimes. You scoffed afterwards, and so did I. What matter past lives, or future ones? We were warriors. The present was all that mattered.
"I wonder, my friend.... Have you been alone in all the lifetimes since then? Lost, and damned? My soul is trapped here, while yours has been reborn. I remember what you said as you died.... You were wrong."
He pauses, and looks out past the shrine into the deeper cavern beyond. He knows what is there. The voice that spoke to him before. He fled from it. It will not be there now.... this is a world of his own making. Surely the immortal voice will not be there now....
Or maybe it will be. Shaking, for the dead can feel fear just as the living can, he turns and heads back the way he came. He is not afraid any longer, and as he thinks about the ancient wisdom in the remembered voice, he thinks again of Valen.
"What did you know?" he snaps. "I would have beaten you. You were a coward.... too cautious, too heedful of life. We are warriors! We are trained to kill, and to die. Death is.... should be.... nothing but the release from our obligations. Who said that? My tutor, Durhan. That was his name. Just as his trainer was Durhan, and his.
"Yes, Durhan said that. It was carved in the stones outside our temple. 'Death is nothing but the release from our obligations.' I wish it was a release for me.... but then I betrayed my obligations, didn't I? Perhaps I do not deserve peace.
"Damn you, Valen! You did not understand us. You betrayed us all a thousand times over before I ever turned against you. I was better than you in every way, all I had to do was prove it to you.
"If only Derannimer had known that."
Sorrowfully, he shakes his head and carries on. The lakes of fire are up ahead, so similar to the ones where he died. Wait! They are not in Z'ha'dum, they are.... somewhere else.
Oh, what does it matter? He will return to the fire, and be refreshed and reborn in the terror of his death.
He does not know it, but someone there is waiting for him.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

"Why do I have to say this? Why exactly do I have to warn you to be careful? Why do I have to point out the risks of meeting strange people we don't know in a strange location after receiving an ambiguous message?
"Why do I even have to ask these questions?"
"Karma?"
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Maybe you did bad things in a past life? Maybe whatever you did was so bad as to merit being stuck with me."
"I don't believe in reincarnation. Hmm.... so what must you have done in a past life then? To end up here, I mean."
"Oh, probably nothing. I've done all the bad things in this life. I'm going to be reincarnated as a Pak'ma'ra or something."
"I've met a Pak'ma'ra. They're.... decent enough, I suppose, as aliens go. Just don't try reading their mind or watching them eat and you'll be fine."
"Well, in my experience of dealing with alien races I'll put messy eaters a long way below those who try to blow me into little tiny pieces."
"Yes, I suppose I can see the reasoning behind that. I can't of course see the reasoning behind this meeting."
"Oh, come on. You always try to read my mind."
"I'd really rather not take the risk. Besides, it is.... uncomfortable doing that at the moment."
"Yes? This has something to do with what happened in that compound, hasn't it? You could try talking to me about it."
"No.... that is.... not a good idea at the moment.... However, I could point out the unfairness between what happened to me and what happened to you."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh come on! I get.... well.... I have various nastiness happen to me and you get stuffed full of orange juice and offered a job."
"It wasn't quite like that. But yes, it was.... strange, which for the record is why I'm here. Whoever sent us the message promised us information, remember. I don't know about you, but I'm willing to take the risk. I'm tired of being led around by the nose."
"And I notice you didn't read the rest of the message."
"What rest of the message?"
"The part that says, 'P.S. This is a trap.' And our mysterious visitor is late. I hate people who don't show up on time."
She suddenly started, and straightened at the sound of movement just up ahead. "I'm sorry for being late," said a polite, if slightly strained voice. "Punctuality is a lost art these days. However, I was.... unavoidably detained."
"Yeah, you and the rest of the solar system. So, who are you?"
"My name is Welles. You have probably heard of me. You, sir, certainly have. I remember meeting you two years ago. I could of course have gone for the whole cloak-and-dagger business and done a 'Deep Throat', but frankly I don't have time.
"I'm come to put a deal to both of you. Normally I wouldn't take this risk, but I don't have time to play safe. I've been following you two for quite a while, and I'm fully aware of what you've been trying to do here. You more than anyone else might be willing and able to do what I need.
"So, Dexter Smith, former Earthforce Captain and current social crusader, and Talia Winters, telepathic saboteur and secret agent, otherwise known as Mrs. Tamara Winter, Lieutenant T. Stoner, Bridget O'Shaughnessy, Anne Elizabeth Clements, among others....
"I need you to do something for me."
"What?" asked Smith.
Welles smiled slightly. "Steal something. Or rather someone. An individual I am sure you have both heard of.
"Her name is Delenn."

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

"I was killed in fire, you know. It is said that is the worst way to die, slowly, in agony. I did not mind so much at the time. I wanted to die, in any way possible.... but there was a moment, as my skin was crisping, my clothes alight and only my will kept me conscious, that I changed my mind.
"I could still live. There was one moment of clarity just before I died, when I realised I could still live. I could do so much. I could seek forgiveness, seek redemption, return to the man I had been.
"But of course I could not. I died, and my last sight was of the figure standing watching me, humming softly and cradling a globe in his outstretched hands. I realised what he was, and I started to scream.
"Everyone should remember their death, don't you think?"
Marrain stood on his precipice, looking out at the sea of flames erupting all around him. He raised his arms, and the flames rose higher and higher. Sinoval stood watching him silently from a nearby rock ledge.
"I am not dead," he said softly, after a long pause.
"Oh? I was sure...." Marrain shook his head. "I forget. How much time has passed since you last spoke to me?"
"A few months. I have.... been busy."
"Ah. A few months?" He began to chuckle. "I was sure it was longer. A hundred years or more. I thought you must have died in the meantime and become a part of this.... soulscape in which we are all bound. The other souls do not come to visit me. I fear they do not like the place I have made my home." He bent down, and raised his hand just as another wave of flame arose. He caught it and examined it lovingly, as another man might a flower, or a bird.
"I cannot see why," Marrain continued. "I personally enjoy it here."
"Fire is a painful and traumatic death," Sinoval observed.
"Yes. It certainly is that.... until a moment before the end. Then you realise that nothing truly matters."
"The more painful the death, the less.... stable the soul is when collected. I am told you were.... less than sane even before you died."
"Insults? Here, in my own home?" Marrain shook his head, smiling. "I should be very unhappy, but.... what does it matter? You speak the truth. I suppose I was insane, made so through envy, and hatred, and.... love. Hah, now there is a thing to make anyone insane."
"I would guess so. I have never been in love myself."
"No? You are very lucky, or very unlucky. I am not sure which."
"Was it worth it? The moment of love you felt? Was it truly worth the cost of everything that resulted from it?"
"No.... but then she did not return my love. If she had, then.... perhaps. I do not know. What is your point?"
"As I was saying, you were taken in great pain and considerable madness. Thus it is possible you are fixated on the moment of your death. That has happened before with souls brought back to the world of flesh over and over again. They became obsessed with death and the manner of bringing it about."
"Yes." Marrain paused, deep in thought. Trickles of flame licked at his feet, but he seemed not to notice. "That does seem to make sense. Few.... think about death while they live. At least not properly. I was a warrior, thus I lived with it more than others, but not even I understood it.... No one can, who has not died.
"Hmm."
Something suddenly occurred to him and he turned, rounding on Sinoval, his eyes in a black fury. Fire rose up around him, a great wave cascading over his form. He paid it no heed, no more attention than Sinoval did to the rising surge lapping at his feet.
"Souls brought back to life?" Marrain cried. "That is possible?"
"Forbidden," Sinoval admitted. "But possible, yes."
"Why? Why did I not know of this before? By all the Gods of my fane, to live again.... to breathe, to raise a hand to the sky, to.... drink and eat and....
"To kill."
"And is that what you would do if you were brought back to life? You would kill?"
"I.... I was a warrior. It is what I did. What I still would do."
"No. Warriors fight. They do not kill, not unless it is necessary. I learned that lesson recently.... although it was not easy."
"Yes, you have changed. I can see it in you. You are one of them now."
"Tell me, Marrain.... would you like to live again?"
"You said it was forbidden."
"It is, but there is small risk in doing so only once. I will not give you immortality. I will not grant you life eternal, or a multitude of lives to squander. One lifetime. One more chance to live.... and breathe and rectify the mistakes you made in your last.
"For all of history mortal beings have wanted nothing so much as a second chance. I am offering you one, if you are willing to take it."
"I...." Marrain paused, and the flames died down, sinking deep into the ground. He looked at Sinoval, and his eyes betrayed the hope of one who has long since believed all hope lost.
"What must I do?"
Sinoval told him.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

The history of the Centauri Republic is a long one, filled with moments of glory, moments of honour, of courage and of extraordinary sacrifice. There were also moments of horror, of tragedy, of incompetence and of needless death.
The Centauri are a proud and arrogant people, and they have over the centuries indulged in more than just a little re-writing and re-shaping of history. People who to one generation were heroes became villains to the next, and monsters of utter evil have become canonised with the passing of the days. The late and unlamented Prince Cartagia knew this all too well, and already even now there are whispers that things might have been so much better had he triumphed in his fateful duel with the current Emperor Londo Mollari.
Londo wondered idly how future generations would see him. Hero or villain? Saviour or destroyer? That would of course depend on whether there were any future generations at all.
Still, as he looked at his companion and friend, he pondered the workings of history.
There had been two Emperors from House Marrago in the history of the Centauri Republic, just as there were now two Emperors from House Mollari. And, in all probability like House Mollari, there would never be another Emperor from House Marrago. Not that the line would not continue, for it surely would, but as part of the oath of that House.
The first Emperor Marrago had raised arms against his Emperor, storming the Royal Palace, murdering the entire Imperial family and instituting a twelve-year reign of terror. That was how the history books had always portrayed that time. To some, to those who knew better, Emperor Marrago had deposed and executed a bloody tyrant who would surely have destroyed the Republic through madness and incompetence, and he had taken the throne only at the insistence of the entire Centarum.
Regardless of which version one believed in, the first Emperor Marrago was succeeded by his son, a weak man, incompetent according to some, grief-stricken and ill according to others. He had reigned four years before his assassination.
Since then, House Marrago had taken a sworn oath. It was their House promise, the words immortalised under their insignia.
We serve Emperors. We do not make them.
And yet Londo surely owed his ascension to his old friend. Had Marrago made him Emperor?
"Majesty?" said Marrago. "Majesty, are you.... well?"
"Yes," Londo replied. "I am.... fine. Why would I not be?"
"Because you have not heard a single word I have said for the past ten minutes. I swear, Londo, I think I would rather be with the Narns than here. At least they listen to what I have to say."
Londo chuckled. No one else dared to speak to the Centauri Emperor like that - apart from his beloved First Consort of course - but Marrago did so by imperial decree and by dint of a life-long friendship. The courtiers would be scandalised of course, but they were not here. This was after all a private and confidential meeting between the Emperor and his Lord-General. Not even the other Ministers were here, although Timov would doubtless be eavesdropping somewhere.
Apart from the two of them, the only other person present was Lennier, Londo's taciturn and near-silent Minbari bodyguard. He frightened the courtiers almost as much as the Lady Timov did, and as a result they tended to ignore all the multiple breaches of etiquette he unknowingly committed.
"You are right," Londo said with an exaggerated sigh. "Alas, I am an old man, and I have been without sleep a great deal recently. Affairs of state, you realise."
"Well, I am an even older man," Marrago said, "and...."
"Older by four days," Londo interrupted.
"I am an even older man, and if I have to stay awake, then so must you. Are you willing to listen, Majesty, or must I get Timov to fill you with some ghastly medicine?"
"Great Maker, no! Ah, you are an evil man. So, anyway.... what were you saying?"
"As I was saying.... it seems as if the Narns have a new commander. G'Sten has by all accounts resigned after his failed attack here several months ago. It is a pity, really. I admired him. And we old men should stick together. Anyway, the new commander is probably G'Sten's protégé Na'Tok. He is a little sharper and more prone to risk-taking, but his current strategy is both conservative and deeply flawed. He is trying to hold on to all their captured territories, probably by the order of the Kha'Ri again. His efforts to do so are admirable, but vulnerable.
"Especially at risk to our counterattack is Ragesh Three. Again. On the other hand, I am certain he will be expecting that, and until I know more about Warleader Na'Tok I am inclined to focus my attentions elsewhere.
"Tolonius Seven. My scouts inform me it is sparsely defended, and has recently been troubled by rioting and unrest. The Narn ground forces are severely stretched and by all accounts underprovisioned and undermanned.
"I think we can retake Tolonius Seven. Na'Tok and the Narns will soon find out that capturing territory is easy. Keeping it is much harder."
"So.... do you think I will be able to deliver a united Republic to my successors?"
"Londo...." Marrago sighed, and looked down. "I very much doubt we will be able to regain all our lost holdings within either of our lifetimes. We will be at war for as long as we both live, and probably for so long as our children live. The Republic is dying.... and all we can do is hold as much of it as we can, for as long as we can."
"What about peace? The Narns seemed to be.... open to some sort of negotiation. We will have a permanent embassy on Kazomi Seven within months, and then.... backed by the Alliance...."
"The Alliance is already at war, and I do not think the Narns want peace. Even if they do, can our two races ever be at peace? There is too much hatred, too much anger, too many memories. No, Londo, I do not think so. If I did, and if there was anyone I could pass this burden on to, I would have done as G'Sten did, and retire."
"Retire? Great Maker, Marrago, a peaceful life would bore you to tears!"
The Lord-General sadly shook his head. "No. No, Londo. I would like nothing more than to sit in my garden, to watch my daughter marry, to raise grandchildren and to watch them grow strong and wise in a better and finer Republic than I knew. A comfortable chair, a fine sunset and hope for the future, that is all I ask for."
"It sounds...." Londo sighed. "Ah, it sounds wonderful. I tell you what, Marrago. By the end of the year, by then, we will have peace with the Narns and all the wars will be over. You can go to your garden, and I will bring along a comfortable chair and join you there. I can flirt with your daughter, leer at women far too young for me, play too many card games and drink too much brivare. How does that sound?"
Marrago laughed. "Your tastes are a little.... different from mine, but it takes all sorts. You will be welcome in my garden, Londo, but flirt with my daughter and I am afraid I will have to challenge you to a duel."
"What?!" Londo cried in mock outrage. "You would challenge your own Emperor?"
"Not even the Emperor could insult the honour of my daughter and live."
"Very well, I accept your challenge. brivare bottles at twenty paces!"
Marrago let out a booming laugh. "Alas, then I concede. I could never best you with such weapons. You may flirt with my daughter all you like. Tell me, will you be bringing that chair with you?"
"This thing?" Londo patted the armrest of the Purple Throne. "Good Gods, no. A less comfortable chair I have never sat in. You will have to provide me with one."
Marrago nodded, smiling. "A fine image, Londo. By the end of the year I will give you as much of a free Republic as I can. Then.... we can grow old together."
"Yes. We shall."
Marrago bowed, and turned from the throne room. "Tolonius Seven shall be ours again within weeks, Majesty. I promise you that. I will not fail."
"I never supposed you would," Londo muttered as Marrago left. "I never for one moment believed you would."

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

David Corwin, Captain of the Dark Star 3, re-named the Agamemnon, hero of numerous battles he did not care to recall, walked into the room where his oldest friend, former Captain and greatest inspiration was sitting.
Captain John Sheridan was seated at his desk, perusing a report. He did not look up as his friend entered. Corwin looked at him, and noticed the several days' growth of beard on his chin and the dark, haunted look in his eyes. It did not seem as if he was eating well these days.
Of course, there were reasons for the Captain's depression. After spending several months in a coma, close to death, he had recovered, only to lose the woman he loved and find himself thrust into a bloody war against a powerful enemy.... Well, there were bound to be some.... mental and emotional problems. Stress-related, probably.
But Corwin couldn't shake his uneasy feeling as he walked further into the room.
"We were ambushed just on the edge of the Vega system," the Captain said, his voice scratchy and hoarse where once it had been commanding. "We lost Dark Stars Seven and Thirteen. Dark Star Eleven was badly damaged, perhaps it can't be recovered. They lost over half their crew."
He looked up suddenly, as if realising that Corwin was there. "Please tell me you've got good news, Captain," he said. "If it's bad news, then.... ah hell. If it's bad news give it to me anyway. Do we still control Kazomi Seven?"
"Last I heard."
John nodded, smiling. The smile seemed incongruous on his haunted features. "Good. Let's hear it then."
"We destroyed the observation post in Sector Forty-five. Dark Star Twenty-four was lost, and there were various damages and casualties, but the mission was a success."
The Captain breathed out and sat back in his chair. "Ah, that's good. They're now completely blind on that approach to the Vega system. Good. We'll need to prepare a small raiding party quickly to harry the military installations around Vega Twelve. Not a serious full-on attack, but.... Yes, we need to lure their forces away from the colony itself."
"Captain," Corwin said softly. "We're spreading ourselves too thinly. We're throwing the Dark Stars at everything we can, at countless different targets, and we're taking casualties. Sooner or later, we won't have any left."
"Hmm? Oh, there's no need to worry. There'll be a new fleet coming through. The Vorlons promised it by the end of the year, maybe sooner. We won't run out of ships."
"And what about people? Just how are we going to crew these ships? G'Kar only has so many Rangers, there are only so many experienced soldiers and.... we're taking too many heavy losses. Is there going to be anything left when we're done?"
"I know things are looking.... difficult. We just need to.... keep up the pressure, keep them off balance. We're hurting them as well. We'll be able to take the Vega system completely in a month or so - according to my reckoning - and from there to some of the outer mining colonies, Arisia for one. Proxima by the end of the year."
Corwin sighed and rubbed at his eyes. "Captain.... what about Delenn?"
"Dammit, David, we've had this conversation."
"G'Kar has some Rangers placed inside the Vega system. The news is still reporting that they have Delenn a prisoner."
"It's propaganda, David. You know that. Delenn's dead."
"Why would they lie about something like this? Surely they knew we would have to react. It's practically inviting war with the Alliance. They wouldn't do this unless they were telling the truth. Look, we could send a small group of Rangers into Proxima, try and find out the truth, try and rescue her...."
"No, we can't risk the Rangers on a pointless suicide mission. You said yourself there weren't enough of them."
"John, what do you think they're doing to her in there? They're going to be torturing her, trying to get her to confess to all sorts of things. The news said she was going to be put on trial for war crimes. They're going to execute her. John, listen to me!"
"Shut up!" the Captain roared suddenly, leaning forward and sweeping all the reports on the desk to the floor. "Shut up and listen to me! I am your superior officer and you will damn well listen to me!
"Delenn is dead. They killed her on Z'ha'dum, and I took the Babylon there on a stupid and foolhardy mission to try to get her back. Clark is lying when he says he has her. He's lying, and that's it. Don't you think if Delenn were still alive I'd do everything I could to try to help her? Do you think I could bear the thought of her suffering like that?
"But even if she is alive, there's nothing we can do about it. She wouldn't want us to risk any lives on futile rescue missions, you know that.
"There's nothing we can do. We'll get to Proxima when we get there, and not before."
"But John...."
"You are dismissed, Captain."
"What?"
"I said you are dismissed."
"Yes, sir!"
Corwin spun on his heel and stormed from the room, not looking back to see if the Captain was picking up the reports or not. His blood was boiling and his ears stung. Why wasn't Sheridan listening to him? What was wrong?
As he left the Captain's makeshift office he almost ran into someone. Stepping back, apologising hastily, he saw it was Lyta, and his eyes brightened. He spoke her name happily. "I haven't seen you since we got back from Z'ha'dum. I'd heard you'd recovered, but then you just disappeared. Are you feeling all...?"
Then he noticed the presence behind her. The Vorlon loomed over her, its eye piece twitching. There was the faint whisper of near-music that was its breath. It was not a Vorlon Corwin had seen before. Its encounter suit was blood-red, streaked with a dark, rusty brown. The eye stalk was sharp and curved.
"David," Lyta said, her voice flat. "It's good to see you. Yes, I'm fine, but I've been busy. I'm sorry."
<Leave us,> said the Vorlon. There was a hissing vibration in its voice.
Corwin stepped aside, puzzled and angry. Lyta went into the room, the Vorlon following. The last sight Corwin had before the door shut behind them was the Captain rising from his seat, smiling broadly at the new arrivals.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Pride, it is said, is a sin. A deadly one at that. Welles had never really seen the rationale behind that. There was nothing wrong with pride so long as it did not lead to arrogance, overconfidence or stupidity.
There was little he was proud of these days, but his skill in reading people was one thing. He had been failing miserably in this area of late, what with being unable to register Clark as anything other than a complete blank, not to mention his complete loss of self-control at the sight of Delenn's green eyes.
These two, however, might as well have been an open book to him.
They were close, their body language said as much. A little more than friends, not quite lovers, although they probably would be soon. There were elements of light flirtation in their speech patterns and language tones. She was sceptical, probably by habit, but also rather shaken. Her self-confidence had been badly disturbed recently and she was not at her best. Welles was fully aware how good an infiltrator she must have been to hide under his nose on the Babylon all that time.
Smith was more of an idealist, evinced by his reasons for doing the things he was doing. Welles had dug up his background details a few months ago and found out all about his childhood in the Pit. He was the kind of person who always needed someone or something to fight, and he preferred it to be a straightforward case of black and white, good and evil.
Also, and this was a definite plus, he had met Delenn. His whole posture had changed at the mention of her name. That was good. Her green eyes had obviously worked their magic on him as well.
"More details, please," said Talia. Her scepticism was more evident than ever.
"Delenn of Mir, former Satai of the Grey Council and current leader of the United Alliance of Kazomi Seven. Somehow, and they aren't telling us the exact details, our associates and allies managed to abduct her and bring her here to us. She is to be put on trial for war crimes, the precise charges to be determined later.
"Currently she is residing in the Maximum Security Hospital at the military base in Sector Four-o-five. She is recovering from.... complications arising from a medical operation.
"She is well guarded there, but less so than she would be in the Main Dome Security Building. We have a small window of opportunity, and so it will be necessary to act soon."
"What do you want done with her?" asked Talia.
"Got out of there, taken somewhere safe, and as soon as is possible transferred off-world and back to Alliance space."
"Why?"
"I.... have my reasons. Please do not ask me for details. On the other hand, you are free to read my mind to determine if this is a trap. I have been fully trained in blocking telepathic scans, but you will note I am not doing so now. I am completely genuine in my wish to see her free."
Talia looked at Welles intently for a moment, and then she swayed. She was clearly weaker than he had thought. Whatever had shaken her it was telepathic in nature, possibly weakening her control over her power.
"He's telling the truth," she said finally to her companion. He nodded, clearly not having suspected anything else. Talia looked back at Welles. "What do we get out of this?"
"Information. I have been putting together a rather.... interesting dossier concerning IPX and their activities over the past few years. It is not exhaustive by any means, but it is something, and you will no doubt be able to make perfect use of it. I will also be able to arrange a flight off-Proxima for you.
"And as for you, Mr. Smith, I will organise a full-scale investigation into corruption and illicit activities in Sector Three-o-one. It will reveal enough information to take down both Mr. Trace and Mr. Allan, as well as a fair few others. I will also install a new Chief of Security for the area, and do what I can to make the sector a decent place to live. Oh, and I understand the murder charges against you personally have been dropped. I will see they are never raised again.
"Is that a fair offer?"
"Yes," Smith said. "We'll do it."
"We need time to think about it," Talia said hastily. "How can we contact you?"
"Don't. I will contact you. Have a decision for me by this time tomorrow. Remember, we do not have much time. Nor does Delenn.
"I was not here. This conversation never took place."
With that he left, suppressing a smile. They would do it.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Sonovar was a warrior caste Minbari, a warrior and a leader of warriors, and therefore he was one of the finest beings to walk this galaxy. No heathen alien, pathetic priestling or cringing worker could hope to be his equal, and of his fellow warriors very few were his match in anything.
There were few beings he liked, and fewer still he respected. He did not like the Tak'cha at all, but he did respect them. He admired their skill in battle, their willingness to die in a noble cause and their belief in Valen almost as much as he loathed their religious fanaticism, their incessant rituals and the prattling of their priests.
Still, he was willing to tolerate a great deal if it would bring him to his destiny as a hero. Putting up with alien customs was merely an inconvenience.
"Zaron'dar," said one of the Tak'cha, addressing him. It was the Alyt, the Ramde as they called the rank. Cozon, that was his name. There was another figure behind him, taller and more spindly. Unlike the soldier Tak'cha Sonovar was more familiar with, this new figure was blue-skinned, or at least he appeared to be. Upon closer examination he could see it was a dye of some sort. The newcomer also wore robes of a brilliant bright red and was carrying a long staff topped with a blade made up of three sharp edges. The whole ensemble was uncannily reminiscent of the formal dress of a Satai, although clearly designed by someone who had not understood what that meant.
"The Z'ondar guide your footfalls," Sonovar said formally, in the old dialect the Tak'cha used.
"And light your path to the future," replied Cozon, completing the greeting. He and Sonovar both bowed. "Zaron'dar, I have the honour to present the Light of the K'Tarr, the Bearer of the Tri-lahr and the Guardian of the Book of Atonement. This is Sah'thai Vhixarion, leader of the Tak'cha shipworlds."
Vhixarion nodded once, imperiously. Sonovar, trying not to show his amusement, bowed formally.
"You are the Zaron'dar, it is claimed," Vhixarion said. Sonovar bridled inwardly. The Sah'thai was using the same old dialect he and Cozon had, but he had used the familiar address, speaking to Sonovar as if he were a child. "You are the one who will guide us back to the Z'ondar, that we may atone."
"Such has been said of me," he replied, as respectfully as he could manage.
"And how are we to do this? By waging war on the False Satai, who makes alliances with the accursed Lords of the Dead? Tak'cha warriors are every day giving their lives for the good of the shipworlds that we may gain the lights of forgiveness, and yet.... and yet there is one question that touches me in my moments of meditation in my Grey Hall.
"Where is the Z'ondar?!"
Sonovar almost recoiled from the fury in Vhixarion's voice. He could see a light shining from the triple-bladed staff, and the Sah'thai's eyes glowed a fierce and bloody red.
"The Z'ondar has returned to us, we were told. He appeared in the Temple of the Old Ones on Minbar, and announced his return to us all. You told us of this, and told us that the False Satai had denied the presence of the Z'ondar.
"So where is the Z'ondar now? Why have we not rescued him from whatever captivity in which he is held?"
Sonovar coughed. He had no idea where Valen was now, all he knew was that he had vanished from Kazomi 7 almost a year ago. The priestlings there had jabbered on about him passing beyond in order to wage war against the Shadows, but Sonovar believed none of that. He was half inclined to agree with Sinoval that 'Valen' was a Vorlon imposter. Stating that to the Tak'cha would not be a wise idea, however.
"The Z'ondar is watching us all," he replied, aiming for a mix of simple faith and awe-inspired wonder. "His light guides our every action, and he watches as we all atone for sins past and present. We are still imperfect beings, and hence he still withholds himself from us."
"You know where he is?"
"He will give us a sign to show that he is still here. We are proceeding as he would wish."
"Then.... then we will wait for that sign. I am here, Zaron'dar, to witness the truth for myself and for my people, to gauge the wisdom of the alliance we have formed. If it be the Z'ondar's will that this alliance be forged, then he will give us the sign of which you speak."
"He will."
"Then let us pray to determine the nature of this sign, and to beg for his teaching."
Sonovar almost groaned at the thought of another interminable ritual, but he hardened his resolve. All he could see was himself being acclaimed as the great hero he had always known he was, being recorded in the tomes of history as a great leader, and plaques and statues erected in his honour.
With all those in mind, the ritual was not such an ordeal after all.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Elsewhere another ritual of sorts was being carried out, a ritual such as had not been performed in many thousands of years. A ritual now forbidden because of its consequences.
Sinoval, Primarch Majestus et Conclavus, it was once said, knows how to break the rules in a good cause. His cause here was just, or so he believed, and he had taken precautions. Restoring a soul to life was forbidden because it could lead to madness and obsession with death. If the procedure was performed only once, however, there was little danger of either.
Or so he hoped.
"What are you doing, my lord?" asked a voice. A voice normally soft and gentle, filled with compassion and mercy, but hard and stern when necessary. He turned to look at her.
"You should not be here, my lady," he told Kats. He was annoyed. He did not like her to watch some of the things he knew were necessary.
"Your Soul Hunters passed by as I walked. Your Primarch's Blades let me approach you. Please, my lord.... I know you are doing something you should not. What are you doing?"
"I am beginning that which will break Sonovar's power," he explained. "I am restoring a lost soul to the grace of life. I am offering him a single chance for redemption."
"What are you doing?"
"I will restore Marrain to the life of the flesh, that he may walk again."
She gasped, and her body shook. "He was a traitor," she whispered. "A madman. You told me he died insane and in agony. He betrayed Valen!"
"All of us deserve a single chance for redemption," he replied. "Including him. This is forbidden by the Well of Souls itself. You should not be here, my lady."
"I am here. My lord.... this is wrong. I failed to speak out once before when you were doing something that was wrong, and I lost my friend as a consequence. I am your conscience, and I tell you.... this is wrong."
He smiled. "My lady.... you do not understand him as I do. I have spoken to him, and explained what he must do. Have faith in me.... please."
She looked doubtful, but then bowed her head. "I will watch."
"You do not have to...."
"I will watch."
He chuckled mirthlessly, then turned from her. Marrain's soul globe hung suspended in the air above the body of a fallen Minbari warrior. He had died of an illness, and his family were all dead. He would no doubt feel honoured by being able to serve his lord, even in death.
Sinoval closed his eyes, stretched out his arms, and sought the knowledge of the Well of Souls. He was the Primarch Majestus et Conclavus now, and his mind was as that of Cathedral itself, was as old as the first race born to the universe. The knowledge and power of a legion of the dead were available to him.... as was the compunction to use it properly.
"I do not do this for pride," he whispered. "Nor for revenge, nor for hatred. I do this because it must be done, because all of us deserve a possibility for redemption, and because it will lead a lost soul to the grace of his people."
In his mind, he heard the voice of the Well of Souls. We know these things, Primarch. Do not forget them.
"You will let me do this?" he whispered.
These are different times, and his is a troubled soul. Free him.
He smiled, and felt a great wind rush through his mind. A great light surrounded the soul globe, and then he was lost in the memories of millennia.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

It was thinking of the Dark Ones again, the Masters, the Lords of Chaos. Its people had many names for them, many terms of respect, but only one attitude: absolute obedience. But obedience could still be tempered with arrogance, servitude with pride.
They were the first among all those in the Great Compact. Of all the races who served the Dark Masters; the Zener, the Z'shailyl, the countless others, the Drakh were prime. Their fleets might have been destroyed, their orbs shattered, their magi left blinded and lost, but still they were foremost, still they served, walking in shadows, moving in darkness, preparing, readying, performing their Masters' will.
It had a name, but one it would not speak here, not in this place of aliens. There were some here who worshipped the Dark Masters, showing them what their foolish alien brains believed to be the proper reverence. There were others who sought to barter with the Masters, bidding for their services as though this were commerce or business, both concepts the Drakh understood but dimly.
It was here to appear to those who professed to worship and to discuss with him who claimed to bargain. There were certain lessons both sides had to learn, and in the name of the Lords of Chaos, they would learn them.... and well.
The door to the chamber opened and in walked the barterer, the merchant, he who traded life and death as beads on a table, as instruments in a market. Fool! He might be as blind as any newling, as weak as any outcast, but among these people he was held to be strong. The Dark Masters admired that and sought to use him, to employ him, to bind him slowly and unwittingly to their purposes.
The merchant stopped and spun on his feet, his blade in his hands in an instant. The Drakh was impressed. Skill, there was. Would he stand against a Warrior of the Dark Masters, one of the creations of their black vats at Thrakandar? Perhaps he could, after all. The Drakh reassessed its opinion of this merchant.
"I know you are here," he said, staring directly at the Drakh, for all the shadows that engulfed it. It moved into the light. "You should not be here," snapped Lord-General Marrago, of the great and glorious Centauri Republic. "I told you never to come here."
"Come here I did, at the will of the Lords of Chaos.... they whom we both serve. There is words they wish to be having with you.... Many words, indeed."
The merchant did not sheathe his sword.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

It was the smallest of things that awoke in him first, the slightest itching of his fingers. He twitched them, and felt the leather in his glove flex. Its texture felt strangely welcome against his skin.
Then came a further awareness. He could feel the blood pulsing in his veins. He could hear the beating of his heart. He could feel his muscles expand and contract.
He could move.
It was his hand he moved first, lifting it so that he could see for himself. He clenched it into a fist.
Then he saw the small globe hovering, suspended above his chest by an unseen force. It was glowing, but the light from it was fading, a little at a time. He could see the last hints of a great flame arising within it, and then it died. The globe became dull and empty, and all that could be seen within it was a dark, smoky mist.
A hand plucked it from the air, and he turned his head. Feeling was coming to the rest of him, faster now. He could see. He could focus his sight.
He knew the figure standing before him. The two of them had spoken many times, but always that had been within the soul globe, in a world where he was master, and he alone. Now he could see Sinoval in the flesh, see his blood and his bones and his bearing.
He knew this was Sinoval, but the first thought that flashed into his mind was: Valen!
It was not Valen of course, he knew that, but there was something there. Sinoval possessed the same absolute mastery over his self that Valen had, and now they met in the flesh that was clear to see.
"Can you move?" Sinoval asked, his voice not unfriendly. He looked tired.
"Yes," came the reply. There was more gratitude in his voice than he had ever believed possible. "Yes, I can move. It is true.... I did not believe it.... It is true...."
Marrain swung his legs off the altar on which he lay and raised his new body upright, so that he stood.
"I live," he whispered, and then he repeated these two words, louder than before, and then again, shouting his joy to the heavens as a sign of his elation, and as a warning to the new universe within which he walked.
"I live!"

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Press conferences were as a rule dull and boring things, little more than a chance to put across highly sanitised and well-screened pap. Clark, however, loved them. He relished the battle of wits with the reporters and, while he accepted that it was sometimes sadly necessary to restrict their remit, now he was having the time of his life with them.
The freedom of the press had been heavily restricted by the Wartime Emergency Provisions, and for the long war years very few papers had been active, all official Government agencies. That had been one of the first of the provisions to be relaxed and then repealed in the last few years, and new papers and magazines and news reports had sprung up from nowhere. There were some criticisms of Clark and the Government of course, but he let them slide. In truth he did not care, he was playing for bigger stakes than anyone here could possibly imagine.
Word of the Beta Durani attack had been out for some time now, but this was the first official response to the crisis other than the formal declaration of war with the Alliance. It was also the first confirmation that the colony had been lost.
"Believe me," Clark said to the listening journalists, "I remember all too well the long years of war, the fear of looking up at the sky each night, afraid of what might come into view. I chose to believe that those days were over. I, like all of you, wanted to believe they were over.
"But as a great man once said, the price of freedom is eternal vigilance. We have lapsed in this duty, and we have lost one of our worlds. I give you my word, Beta Durani will be ours once more, and we will lose no more ground to the alien invaders. We are not alone this time. We have our allies, and they will protect us."
A fine speech, and one he had written himself. Macabee had been in apoplexy at the very thought of course, but he was an inconsequence. Clark was more than adept at manipulating the public.
Besides, he meant almost every word he said.
"Mr. President," said a journalist, one he did not recognise. "Do you have any confirmed casualty lists from Beta Durani?"
"We have set up an emergency hotline for those with friends or family on the colony. I can also report that the Marten was destroyed in the engagement, with the presumed loss of all hands. The families of those killed have already been notified, and they will of course qualify for war bereavement pensions. The loss of Captain Walker Smith is a grave one. He was a truly great man, and an inspiration to all those serving in Earthforce."
"Has there been any response from the Alliance?" asked another voice.
"No," Clark replied. "Not even a formal acknowledgement of our declaration of war. But then that is not surprising, as they have made it clear they do not wish to talk or engage in any form of peaceful negotiation. However, word has come from the Kha'Ri that they do not support this action. They are fully in support of humanity in our stance against the Alliance, and any Narn ships involved in the attacks are renegades and outlaws."
"What about Delenn?" asked another. Her, Clark recognised. Mary Ann Cramer, of the left-wing paper Proxima.
"What about her?" he replied blandly.
"Is she aware of this attack, and how has she responded?"
"Delenn is unaware of what is happening, Miss Cramer. She is currently being held in a secure hospital facility, recovering from an attempted suicide. Security protocols around her have been tightened, and medical tests are being carried out to ensure her fitness."
"What is the progress of the war crimes tribunal?" asked another voice.
"The day before word reached us of the attack on Beta Durani, I personally spoke with former Chief Justice Wellington. He has agreed to come out of retirement to chair the tribunal himself. He is in the progress of assembling lawyers and judges to sit with him on the panel. The exact charge list is still being compiled as evidence is still being gathered, but it will be made public once it is finalised."
"What about representation for Delenn?"
"She will of course have the right to choose her own representation. As yet she has refused to do so, and has declined to have a representative present as she is being questioned. A Government advocate will be appointed to defend her if she does not make a choice for herself. It will be a full and fair trial, I promise you that."
"Mr. President," said Cramer again. "Do you think word of the arrest and detainment of Delenn caused the attack on Beta Durani?"
There was a low hush, and Clark smiled. "Miss Cramer.... there is much you do not understand about warfare. I have spoken with General Ryan and the other high-ranking military leaders. They assure me that the attack on Beta Durani must have been planned for months. The Alliance assembled a significant fleet for the engagement, which could not have been done in a few days.
"No, this was a deliberate and unprovoked attack. I do not believe Delenn to be an issue here. I would have been perfectly willing to inform the Alliance of her arrest, and for them to send a delegation to observe the trial and see that the necessary formalities are adhered to, but that is no longer possible."
There were a few more questions, but they were mostly petty, mundane things, and Clark left, feeling vaguely pleased with himself. He actually found himself liking Miss Cramer. Press conferences were no fun at all without a little challenge, and these days he was up for almost any challenge imaginable. He could not recall the last time he had felt this fit and ready for action.
He returned to his office and found a copy of Humanity magazine sitting on his desk. There was a note from Macabee on top of it, which he did not bother to read. He found that he was on the cover, and it was not even a bad picture. He usually hated having his picture taken.
Flicking inside the magazine, he soon found the relevant article. Humanity had taken a poll among its readers as to the greatest elected leaders of all time. He smiled at the revelation that he had come fourth, behind only Churchill, Lincoln and Mandela, and just edging out Kenshuro. Of course, Clark had never actually been elected, but that was just a technicality.
He set it down, honestly pleased and surprised by the honour. "Distinguished company," he said to himself, and then he chuckled. Soon he began to whistle, and then sing. His voice was crackly and his rhythm appalling, but he didn't care.
"Oh, what a beau-ti-ful mor-ning....
"Oh, what a beau-ti-ful day....
"I've got a won-der-ful fee-ling...."
He was laughing so much he could barely get the last line out.
"Ev-ery-thing's go-ing my way."