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| Volume 4: A Future, Born in Pain | Part V: The First Footsteps on the Road to Babylon |
WHERE are they, the players in the great game of kings and destinies and nations? Where are they all as the forces of destiny converge on Proxima 3? Once, over two years ago, a fleet descended on this world, this last bastion of hope, intent on destruction, on annihilation, on genocide. They were defeated, cast back, driven away.
Now a fleet comes once more, and once more they will be met on the outskirts of the system. And once more, as before, the fates of entire peoples will be in the balance.
The leader of humanity, President William Morgan Clark, stands still and ready in his private office. For years he has been planning this, moving with the approval of the alien that shares his body and his soul. He has been preparing for his greatest defeat, and humanity's greatest victory.
Ambassador David Sheridan is with him, realising at last things he has suspected, but never been able to prove. There is a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, the awareness of experience that tells him his opponent has a hidden card up his sleeve, and not knowing if it is an ace or a joker.
There is one person who could have stopped this, one who has been playing his own game, working for the survival of humanity. But he is not there. He is lying in one of his own cells, his body beaten and battered by his own security guards. Mr. Welles feels the end coming, and he despairs.
In an old building, a centre for business and commerce, two men walk into an area few people know exist. That which they have been planning for so long is coming to pass, and they must be ready. They must also be secure. They know about the firestorm that will soon engulf Proxima, and they also know that they must be made safe from it. Humanity must be guided past this flashpoint, into the future.
Byron feels something stir in his mind, something beginning to wake and rouse.
In a hospital for the poor, the lost, the abandoned and the damned, one who is none of these things half-sleeps, half-wakes, talking to someone she hardly knows. Delenn thinks she can hear a heart beating, slowly, softly, quietly, echoing off the dark walls of this place that is a haven of light in a sea of darkness. Her companion knows this, but he thinks they are safe there.
Somewhere else in Sector 301, a man sits at his desk and thinks about the future. He is dreaming of power, of ultimate power. He is dreaming of crushing his enemies, for what else is power for?
Janice Rosen is having a crisis of conscience. She is a doctor, taught and trained to give healing and succour to all who require it. But she is also a human who has seen her race devastated and terrified by the woman who lies in one of her beds. For hours Janice Rosen struggles with her conscience, until she finally decides on a course of action.
General Edward Ryan is heading for a meeting with people he knows he will have to send to their deaths.
* * * * * * *
General Edward Ryan was a soldier. He was also a member of the Resistance Government of Humanity, a position he had inherited after his predecessor, General William Hague, had put a PPG in his mouth. There were times when Ryan felt like doing the same.
He had found a way round this, but he sometimes wondered if the price of keeping going was worse than if he just stopped going altogether.
He ignored everything. He forgot about the things he had seen in the Government; the dirty dealings, the alliances signed with alien races who made his flesh creep. He ignored the increasing number of soldiers suffering from psychiatric illness as a result of being on the new ships. He tried to blank out the dreams and whispers he knew followed him whenever he was on the Morningstar. He forgot the names and faces of those he had buried or lost. Philby, lost in some foolish attack at Epsilon 3; Walker Smith, killed at Beta Durani; Dexter Smith, unable to bear the constant stress; General Hague. And these were only in the last three years. There were over fifteen years worth of dead faces he tried to ignore.
All he could see was his duty. He was a soldier. It was his duty to obey the orders of his President. That was it. Nothing else.
He looked at the three other people in this room, the three people who represented the greatest hope for the protection of the human race. He wondered how they coped with the things they had seen. What drove them forward?
Captain Francis Xavier DeClercq of the Saint-Germain was sitting quietly, elbows resting on the table, fingers steepled in front of his face. Ryan had a fairly good idea what drove him. For years he had fought against accusations of cowardice. At a time when experienced officers had been as rare and as valuable as gold dust, DeClercq had been overlooked again and again. Ryan's struggle to get him appointed captain of the Saint-Germain had been the hardest he had fought since the Minbari.
But his faith had been rewarded. The Saint-Germain had been a great success. Unlike the other ships in the fleet, it was a scouting and exploration vessel. It had carried out hidden sorties into Minbari space. It had found abandoned worlds and brought back vital technology.
But now it was needed here. All the ships were. DeClercq did not seem angry or worried by his recall to defend Proxima. He looked.... strangely at peace, with the world and with himself.
Ryan shifted his gaze to the figure next to him. Captain Bethany Tikopai was toying with the end of her long black braid, seemingly deep in thought. Ryan also thought he knew what motivated her. She had a daughter, a teenager now, born around the time that Earth was dying.
Ryan sometimes wished he had children. They were something to fight for. Simple, unequivocal. They were the new generation, the future. They had to be protected, and that was that.
The De'Molay had only recently come off the production lines, and Tikopai had only just finished assembling her crew. Both ship and crew were untested in full combat, but they should be fine. The De'Molay represented the height of Shadow technology, much more so than the Morningstar. It was said by the designers and technicians to be all but invincible.
Ryan was glad he was on the Morningstar.
The third person present was not sitting. Captain Jerry Barns was standing just behind his chair, arms folded high over his chest. He was a tall man, with an impassive, alert expression. Ryan could not read him at all, but his skill in battle was well known. His Dark Thunder had been operational for some months now, and had been tested in numerous skirmishes with raiders. Barns radiated a calm demeanour that offset the more.... swashbuckling tendencies of his first officer, Commander Ramirez. The two of them worked well together.
Ryan sat forward and laid his reports on the desk. Three pairs of eyes turned to look at him.
"Proxima needs us," he said simply. It was all that needed to be said.
* * * * * * *
The battle was over, leaving behind only three things.
First, there was the débris of the Narn ships, floating in space. Almost the entire fleet had been destroyed, blown out of the sky. The Centauri ships had taken some of course, but most of them had fallen to the Shadows, the strange aliens who appeared from nowhere and killed in a near-instant. One of the Shadow ships had been damaged, but nothing more. They had disappeared just as the final Narn ships fled.
Second, there was the prospect of the ground war still to come. That would be won, Lord-General Marrago knew, but only at great cost in life. The Narns had occupied the colony for months, and would still have substantial numbers of soldiers based there. The Centauri would be able to mount an uprising, and they had already won air control, but it would still take time before the colony was completely theirs again.
Third, there were the emotions of victory. Relief and euphoria of those who still lived, coupled with sadness and loss for those who did not. There was the pain of the injured, the hope of the survivors.
Their commander, victorious again, felt none of these things. He felt only fear. Fear for the future he had helped to create.
This was the second time he had called upon the Shadows for aid. A second favour he now owed them. This deal had been secret so far, although only just. Word would surely reach the Kha'Ri now, maybe even with proof. Once might be held to be coincidence.... twice....
That was for the future. For now, there was only the present. The reclamation of Tolonius 7.
His commscreen chimed, and he answered it. He was relieved to see the face of Captain Carn Mollari looking at him. "Captain," he said. "What is the state of the Valerius?" Carn's ship had taken heavy damage.
"Badly damaged, but it can be repaired, Lord-General. Engines are still functioning well. We have begun to ship our soldiers down to the surface as per your orders."
"Good, Captain." There was a pause. "Is there anything else?"
"Those ships, Lord-General.... the ones that came to our aid. I have seen those ships before. I thought I saw them when the Narns attacked our home, but now I am certain.
"Why would Shadow ships help us, Lord-General?" His voice carried a faint hint of accusation, as if he knew.
"It is not our place to question," he replied, wishing he could have phrased it better. He was a soldier, not a silvery-tongued courtier, and yet he wished he could come up with some excuse, some explanation. Anything. There were a million lies he could have crafted to disguise the truth of this deal, but he could not think of any.
All he could think of was the truth.
They offered to help me. They asked for nothing in return but a simple favour. That was all. Narn ships were going to attack our homeworld. Maybe we would win, and maybe they would, but either way, people would die. Good people, with families, with children.
This way, we would live, and only the Narns would die. They are our enemies. They attacked our home. They attacked and invaded our colonies.
I will bear the burden of this deal I have made. I, and no other.
Carn paused, and then nodded. "As you say, Lord-General. I will report again when word reaches me of the status on the ground."
"Do so." The screen went blank and Marrago sat back. He felt tired. He wanted to sit and rest, to feel the warmth of the sun on his face, and to sip brivare until the sun set.
Instead he rose to his feet and began to co-ordinate the ground offensive.
* * * * * * *
"Take it."
Kozorr said nothing, merely looking. Kats could see the emotions flashing through his eyes. She had thought about this moment for months, ever since she had learned of his betrayal, after his failed attempt to destroy the Well of Souls. She had thought about and planned for this moment, but now that it was here, she had no idea what to say.
"Take it," she said again, trying to maintain the dignity and conviction in her tone and bearing. "It is your weapon. Take it."
"No," he said at last. "NO! Why did he bring you here?"
"He did not. I came myself, knowing you would be here."
"You should not be here."
A light sparkled in one of her eyes, briefly, and then it was gone. "That is exactly what he said."
"Then we can agree on something. You should not be here, my.... Whatever Sinoval is planning, he should not have included you."
"I am capable of looking after myself," she said flatly. "Besides, I have my protectors. Sinoval did not send me here alone." She stepped back, and held the pike against her side. "If you do not want this, then I shall keep it."
"No, I.... I never meant to.... I...."
"Why? Was it always a lie? All of it? Did you mean even a single word of that oath you swore to him?"
"Yes! I did.... then. But.... look at me, my lady. I am a pathetic cripple who cannot even stand unaided. Sinoval should have left me to die in the Hall, and then I would at least be reborn as a warrior, not forced to live on as.... as this! Look at me!
"How can you love such a one as this?"
Kats trembled slightly. In her darkest thoughts she had suspected that she might be to blame for his treachery. After all, had she not been captured by Sonovar and his Tak'cha allies, Kozorr would never have been taken trying to rescue her, would never have offered his life for hers, and never turned.
"How could you love such a one as this? Compared to Sinoval, how could you love me? I had to prove myself worthy of you, my lady. I had to prove myself better than him, at anything, or at everything.... and the only way to do that was to defeat him."
She shook her head, trying to find the words. "You never...." she began, but then she coughed. "You never needed to...."
She suddenly blinked, and everything was gone. Kozorr, the altar, the room, the darkness. Everything was gone, save only her.
There was a column of light and a room of darkness. A soft shuffling noise could be heard, and the harsh rasping of hoarse breath. Her heart caught in her chest, and she let out an involuntary cry. She knew where she was.
"Forgiveness is a fine virtue, is it not?" whispered the hated voice she had heard every night in her dreams for years. "To forgive those who have wronged you, betrayed you."
"No," she whispered to herself, sinking to her knees and curling into a ball. "This is not real. You are dead. You are gone. You are...."
"I am always here. Whenever you close your eyes, whenever you dare to feel yourself safe.... I will be there, traitress. In the eyes of another, in the movements of one you love, or one you hate. You will look at others, and I will be in each and every one of them.
"And when you are alone.... look into the shadows. I will be there. I will never let you rest.... You have not yet learned my lesson, bitch.... and you will not be free of me until you have."
"No...." she whispered again. "What lesson? What did you teach me.... apart from pain and humiliation? What could you teach me?"
"What else?" he said. "You do not understand. I forgave you."
"No.... you didn't. If you did then.... then...." Enlightenment dawned. She opened her eyes and rose slowly. He was out there somewhere, shuffling in the darkness. "You did not forgive me, Kalain. You never did. You used the word as a weapon, bludgeoning me into a mass of pity and sorrow. You taught me how not to forgive someone, how to say the word but keep the bitterness and the hatred inside."
"You are learning. Maybe there is some intelligence inside that weak, less-than-animal brain of yours."
"I have been dreaming about you for two years, Kalain, and I have been hating you all that time. No longer. I forgive you, Kalain. Whatever your reasons, whatever your pain, it is over and done. I forgive you. Maybe that is nothing but a word, but I know this. I will never dream about you again."
"I think you will."
"No. You are wrong, but I do not hate you for it. I pity you. I am sorry for you. Goodbye."
Her pain faded, and she was where she had been. Kozorr was still kneeling on the floor in front of her, his head bowed. Gently, Kats held his pike out to him again. "Take it," she said softly. "It is yours."
He looked up, unshed tears in his eyes. "I am sorry," he said.
"I forgi...."
There was a burst of pain in her back and she fell with an anguished cry. Kozorr's pike slipped from her fingers as she fell.
"You should be more careful," said Tirivail, as she looked at Kozorr. "But then so should she."
* * * * * * *
There was a strange feeling in the air. Trace did not like it. He could not be sure exactly what was going to happen, but he could feel that things were changing. Something big was going down.
He didn't like that. In his younger days he had liked the feel of Change sweeping the world. It had provided plenty of opportunities for someone with the will and the ambition. Now.... he was content, for the time being. It was a time for consolidation, gradually strengthening his empire, and setting things in motion for the future. Change would disrupt that.
He had been in a bad mood all day, unable to shake this feeling. His patron had not been in touch with him for days. Allan had sent word that someone had arranged for the murder charges against Smith to be dropped. That would take a lot of influence. Maybe even as far as Welles himself.
Actually, that did not bother Trace so much. He had been using corruption as a weapon for so long it would be a little hypocritical to complain when it was used against him. Besides, Smith had just.... put off the inevitable. Nothing more. He had swapped an easy and comfortable twenty years or so in jail for a very difficult and uncomfortable few days in a dark room and an unmarked grave in a construction site.
Well, that was, as soon as he showed up. Smith was in hiding at the moment, but that wouldn't last forever. Trace had men out looking for him. Smith had killed Nelson, and that wasn't the sort of thing that could be forgiven.
And of course, where Smith was, you would find that knock-out telepath hanging around with him. She was worth a fortune all by herself.
Trace rose to his feet and walked to the window. The air inside the dome seemed to be crackling. He could see people milling about on the streets, uncertain and nervous. They could sense something was going to happen as well. Even the ignorant, blind, stupid sheep who inhabited Sector 301 could feel that something was wrong.
There was a knock at his door. "Go away!" he snapped irritably. He didn't feel like company.
Instead, the door opened. Trace turned angrily. It was Roberts, who was jostling to take Nelson's place as right-hand man. Based on his natural skills and charisma, he had a long way to go.
"I told you to go away."
"There's someone wants to have a word," Roberts replied. "She said it was important."
"Well, it can wait."
"Beggin' pardon, boss. You'll want to hear this."
Trace sighed, and then pondered for a moment. Something was going to happen. This could be it. "Send her in. Oh, and Roberts.... if I didn't want to hear this, I'll expect your kneecaps in the post tomorrow, understand?"
"You'll want to hear this, boss. Believe me."
Roberts stepped back and let a young woman through. Trace looked at her, returning to his chair and sitting down. She looked familiar, but he was damned if he could place her. She was attractive enough, he guessed, if nothing special. "What can I do for you, Miss...?"
"Rosen," she said, sitting down opposite him. "Janice Rosen."
Now he remembered her. She ran some sort of clinic somewhere, looking after the poor and ill. A pathetic, bleeding-heart, failed doctor who didn't know when to let the terminally worthless die in the gutter where they belonged. However, she paid her protection money on time, and so Trace didn't really care what she did.
"So, what can I do for you, Miss Rosen?"
"Someone came to our clinic two nights ago. A man and a woman. They were bringing someone in, someone quite ill."
"So? That happens in medical clinics, doesn't it?"
"We don't get people like this in. I didn't recognise the woman, but I'd seen the man on the vids. He was that war hero, the one who retired. Dexter Smith was the name, although he didn't use it." Trace sat forward. Now he was interested.
"Anyway, I didn't see the person they brought in, not for a while anyway. I wondered at first why they didn't go to a regular hospital up-sector somewhere. Then I saw who it was they brought in.
"It was her. Delenn."
"Delenn is locked up in some military hospital," Trace snorted.
"It was her, I'm sure of it. It's got to be her. She had a mild fever and was in quite deep shock. But it was her. She had the.... the headbone and everything."
"Is she still there?"
"Yes. She's recovering, and she's awake most of the time now, but I told Captain Smith she wouldn't be able to move for another couple of days.
"He doesn't suspect anything, and no one else knows she's there. Well, no one apart from Bo. He runs that pub. He's the one who sent them to the clinic. As soon as I saw who she was, I knew I had to do something. I couldn't go to Security. That would mean they'd find out about my clinic and shut us down. You were the only person I could think of."
"What about that oath of yours? The one to treat all patients the same?"
"I'll treat everyone who needs it, yes. I don't ask who my patients are, and I think everyone deserves a second chance. I'll look after people wanted by Security, the lost, the alone, criminals, anyone. Everyone deserves medical care. Everyone deserves to be looked after.
"But she's killed billions of people. She killed my mother. I just.... I just had to do something. I had to tell someone. You'll.... be able to handle it, right?"
"I will indeed," Trace said with a smile. "You did the right thing. Go back to your clinic and pretend that nothing happened. I'll.... get things sorted out. Don't worry about anything."
"Thank you," she said, smiling. "I knew you would take care of things."
She left, and Trace waited for a few moments after the door closed before he began to laugh. This was what he had been feeling. This was what was going to happen.
This was his chance to get rid of Smith, to get his hands on that telepath, and to do a major service to the public at the same time. Delenn was the bad guy after all, wasn't she? R'Gov might say all kinds of things about a fair trial, but Delenn didn't deserve one of those. Pit justice would be more than enough to deal with her.
Roberts entered. "She's gone, boss."
"I know. Roberts...." Trace paused, thinking about the people outside. Poor, pathetic, deluded sheep, the lot of them. Brainless and worthless, easily led.
"There's something the people of Sector Three-o-one should know. Something I want you to tell them...."
* * * * * * *
Captain Francis Xavier DeClercq knew his reputation full well. For almost fifteen years it had been with him. A coward. A coward who had run while better men than him had stayed to fight the Minbari, and had died doing so. He still lived while better men then him had been dead for fifteen years.
He wanted to explain, to justify what he had done, but these days he could not, not even to himself.
Besides, it hardly mattered. The only people who might have understood were dead. All dead. Not just those who fell at Vega 7, but those who had fallen since. General Franklin, Captain Maynard, Captain Hiroshi, countless others, all their faces and names blurring into one.
All dead, and he still lived. He was still standing on the bridge of a ship that some people said he had no right to command.
His crew had been a little sceptical when they heard who was to be their commanding officer. A good number of them had requested a transfer, but some had stayed. Either they did not believe the stories, or they did not care. In either case they had served him, the Saint-Germain and Earthforce well in the months the ship had been operational. They had undertaken numerous missions, and succeeded.
Never once had they run.
And nor would they run now.
General Ryan had told them all what was happening. Long-distance probes had picked up the approach of the Alliance ships. For some reason known only to themselves they had abandoned their inroads towards the Vega system and were making directly for Proxima. There seemed little sense in this. Their approach would be clearly seen for hours before they could arrive. Defences, preparations, everything would be set up. There was the possibility that enemies might be brought around behind them. They had abandoned their victories in Vega.
It was seemingly the work of a madman, but DeClercq knew Sheridan's reputation. He was no madman.
The Saint-Germain had been sent ahead to scout out the numbers and deployment of the Alliance fleets. The hyperspace probes, tethered to the beacon signals, had given vague details, but the Saint-Germain had sensor arrays centuries in advance of anything humanity could come up with. Their allies, the Shadows, had lent their sensor technology to the Saint-Germain just as they had lent their weapons and defences to the De'Molay and the Dark Thunder.
They had been able to track the oncoming fleet without ever being noticed by them. Or so they had thought. DeClercq remembered with a moment's panic how Ensign Morgan had turned to him and said, "They know we're here."
It was impossible. No ships could sense the Saint-Germain from this far away, in hyperspace. Not human ships, nor Narn, nor Drazi, nor Minbari.
But these ships were not human ones, nor Narn, nor Drazi, nor Minbari. They were the new ships, the ones that had fought at Beta Durani and proved so deadly there.
The Saint-Germain had managed to escape, slipping into eddies and pockets of hyperspace, moving far from the beacon paths. Another ship would have got lost, but their navigational systems were able to negotiate the dark formlessness of hyperspace with stunning ease.
The border between dimensions opened, and the Saint-Germain slipped out into normal space. The De'Molay, the Dark Thunder and the Morningstar were waiting. DeClercq had dispatched the information he had gathered. The fleet approaching was huge, almost every Alliance ship available. This was against all tactical logic, and it troubled him. Sheridan was reckless, yes, but never foolish.
There was something all of them were missing, but in spite of voicing his concerns to Ryan, Tikopai and Barns, and in spite of pondering it for the hours they were waiting, he still could not see it.
The nearby probes had picked up the Alliance fleet. They were making no effort at all to hide their approach.
DeClercq sat forward. He would not run. Not this time. Proxima was not Earth, but it was their home, and he would not abandon it.
A million jump gates opened, and the war fleet of the United Alliance appeared in the skies above Proxima 3. Space shimmered, and the Shadows were there to meet them.
* * * * * * *
We do not understand where we have failed the Z'ondar. We acted in what we believed to be his best interests. But we must accept his words, even if we do not comprehend them.... and we will hope that some day.... we will be able to make amends for the sin we do not understand.
And that in some way.... we will be able to serve him again.
Marrain stepped forward, falling silent. He remembered those words, to the exact letter. He had been present when they were spoken, Zarwin's last words to the Minbari as he went into exile. The Tak'cha carrying the staff stiffened. He clearly recognised the words as well.
"Who are you?" asked the Tak'cha, barely-restrained anger in his voice. He spoke Minbari fluently. "Who are you to desecrate this shrine?"
"Desecration? Hardly. I was here when this shrine was built. I spoke to Zarwin as he left here. He once told me that I would always be friend to the Tak'cha.... to the Unatoned."
"Who are you?"
"I am Marrain."
There were murmurs of anger at this revelation. They would think it a lie. They would have to. Everyone knew that Marrain must be dead by now. But did they know how he had died? Did they know how he had betrayed their precious Z'ondar?
"I am Sah'thai Vhixarion of the Unatoned," said the leader. "And you are a liar. Marrain, our friend and ally, is dead."
"And yet I stand here. Alive." Dead. He was dead. They were dead. Everyone was dead. "I was there at the first meeting with Zarwin. I guarded the Z'ondar at Mount H'leya. I fought alongside him."
"Then how do you live? How do you stand here?"
"The Z'ondar disappeared into the chariot of ages, did he not? He did not die, no more than did I. Death and life are the same, one circle. One unity. One life. One death."
"Why are you here?"
"To help you. To help you atone." Something at the back of his mind was burning. He could feel it. Who was he talking to? Vhixarion, or Zarwin? "As the Z'ondar would have wished." Fire. There was fire everywhere. "To prepare for his return."
Vhixarion looked at him, his wide dark eyes exploring him. He made to speak, and then stopped.
Those who will not follow you into fire, into darkness, into death.... they do not deserve to follow you. And so, instead, they must precede you.
The words came from nowhere, from in front of them, from around them. Suddenly, in an eerie shimmering, there appeared two figures, transparent as glass, but clearly defined as a reflection in a still pond. Everyone knew who they were.
How.... could you? Have you no compassion? Have you no care for the helpless?
There was a whispered hush among the Tak'cha and they all slowly sank to their knees, heads bowed. Only Vhixarion dared to keep looking at the ghosts before him.
We care only to glorify your name, Valen.... We must be true to ourselves above all else, and as we see fit, we will....
Get out!
The Tak'cha shook at the force of Valen's words. Some stumbled backwards, making to leave, imagining their great Z'ondar to be addressing them directly.
I will not have innocent beings slaughtered in my name.
But.... you need us as allies.
We will manage without you. Now leave.
"Our sin," whispered Vhixarion. He turned to Marrain. "What was our sin? The Yolu would not ally themselves with the Z'ondar. They would not pledge themselves to his holy crusade. We were right to chastise them. They would not follow him into fire, into darkness, into death. They should therefore precede him.
"We do not understand. The great Zarwin, the first Sah'thai - he did not understand, and we have not a tenth of his wisdom. The Z'ondar has surely sent you to us for enlightenment, Marrain. Tell us....
"What was our sin?"
Marrain's eyes were dark. He could see flames licking around him. He could see another ghost. His own, standing here, facing Valen after Zarwin's exile. Words had been exchanged. A weapon raised.
Marrain began to laugh, although whether in the present or the past, he could not be sure.
* * * * * * *
Two dead men.
The air was thick and heavy, hot. It seemed to crackle. At David Sheridan's side, two Shadows bristled with anger at the sight of their oldest enemy before them.
"How long have you been here?" he asked.
"We have always been here," Clark said, in a voice that was not his own. "Always. We were content to wait, and watch. When you came to try to bend this man to your will, we waited until we were ready, until you were obscured by your own concerns, and then we moved. We blasted your symbiont from his body and took it for our own."
"How long have you been controlling him?"
"We do not control him. Everything he has done, he has done himself."
<Humanity is ours,> hissed the Shadow at Sheridan's side.
"They have always been ours," said Clark, light pouring from his eyes. He took a step backwards, keeping his desk between him and the Shadows. "We have always been here."
<You have lost.>
"Yes," Clark said with a smile. "We have lost."
Sheridan took another step forward. Something about this made no sense. Clark looked so confident, as if everything was going according to some plan. The Alliance fleet would be here soon, but they were expected. The Shadow ships were also here. The fight would be difficult, yes, but the Alliance would be outnumbered, by the Earthforce fleet, the Shadows, the planetary defence grid....
No, he did not like the feel of this at all.
Clark took another step back. He was against the wall now. Sheridan came forward slowly, moving around the desk. The Shadows followed him, their anger evident in the dark song of their movements.
Clark's face smiled again. "We have lost," he said. "And in that, we have won. Soon you will understand." The light faded from his eyes, and he was himself once again. "They are happy to let me say one last thing to you, Ambassador," he said in his own voice.
"I never liked you."
His arm darted out and he tapped something on the wall. The lights suddenly went out and there was a sliding noise. Sheridan tried to move forward, but he could not see, and the edge of the desk struck against his hip. There was the sound of a scuffle, and a furious shriek from one of the Shadows. A moment later there was the sound of a door slamming shut.
He managed to scramble to his feet, knowing that the backup lighting would come on in a few moments. When it did he saw that Clark had vanished. There was a splatter of blood on the wall, and one of the Shadows lay broken and dead on the floor. The other was furiously hacking at the wall.
"Secret passage," Sheridan spat. "No! We don't have time for that. They have some sort of plan. We have to find out what it is. What exactly is going on?"
There was the sudden sound of klaxons, and he looked up. He could almost see the Alliance ships coming into view, all those miles above. He could almost feel his son on board one of them.
Time was short....
* * * * * * *
G'Kael had never been a particularly religious man. He had always been concerned with practicality over theory, and had seldom bothered with prayer. More recently, however, he was finding faith a suitable and interesting thing to have. It helped greatly when it came to looking at the future.
And the present.
He looked at the woman who was, in name at least, his attaché here on Kazomi 7. Na'Toth had been in the inner circle of the Kha'Ri, only to be deposed in a particularly machiavellian power game. Now she was here, out of the way, in a powerless and humiliating position. Or so her enemies thought. She, G'Kael and G'Kar all knew better.
"The Kha'Ri is not happy," G'Kael noted.
"No," said Na'Toth. "I would guess not. I suppose the evidence is actually reliable?"
"It certainly seems so," G'Kael replied. "I have not actually spoken with the captain who recorded it, but the Kha'Ri seem convinced that it is genuine. Of course, that does not mean a great deal."
"And if it is true, what then?"
"I have instructions from Councillor H'Klo. He wants the Alliance to intervene on our behalf in the war with the Centauri. His exact words were, 'This is no longer a private matter. Our war is now their war.'"
"Will the Council see it that way?"
"It is possible. Captain Sheridan did after all order us out of the Council until we chose to involve ourselves in their war. This way, they will have to involve themselves in our war. The Ha'Cormar'ah will know better than I do, of course."
"When he arrives."
"He is a busy man. The affairs of his position here weigh heavily upon him. Also, there is the matter of the war with the humans to contend with. However, Councillor H'Klo instructed me to bring this matter before the Alliance Council as soon as possible, no matter how busy they are."
"Councillor H'Klo will just have to wait." snapped Na'Toth. He had been among the foremost of those who had stripped her of her position in the inner circle.
A few minutes later the door opened and in walked the Ha'Cormar'ah. G'Kar, head of the Rangers, prophet and leader, both of warriors and of the faithful.
"There is something you should see, Ha'Cormar'ah," said G'Kael softly.
G'Kar watched the video footage in silence. His face was grim. It would be hard, G'Kael knew, for him to watch scenes of Narn soldiers and Narn ships being destroyed. Even harder to watch this happen at the hands of the Shadows, seemingly allied with the Centauri, who were led by G'Kar's oldest friend.
"Is that genuine?" G'Kar asked, when it was finished.
"It seems so," replied G'Kael. "Our preliminary tests have not been able to determine any obvious flaws in the recording. It will be examined in more detail, of course."
"Londo would never ally himself with the Shadows," G'Kar said angrily. "He has been fighting them almost as long as I have. He was one of the first to join my mission."
"That was our thought," said Na'Toth. "But are you sure he would not do that? Not even for the good of his people?"
"No, he would not. He was here, remember. He was here when the Drakh invaded Kazomi Seven. He has seen the chaos the Shadows cause. He would not make such an alliance, no matter what the ultimate aim. This is a trick of some kind."
"Whatever it is," G'Kael said, "my instructions are to take this piece of footage before the Council and demand that the Centauri embassy here be refused recognition, their provisional ambassador exiled, and our embassy restored to its rightful status. I am also to request that the Alliance join our war against the Centauri."
"Londo would never give his people over to the Shadows," said G'Kar thoughtfully. "This is a trick, I am sure of it. By the Shadows or...."
He hesitated, and G'Kael caught the belief he could not give voice to. The position of Narn Ambassador here had been denied recognition by the Council and G'Kael himself dismissed from war meetings, until, as Sheridan had put it, the Narns chose where their allegiance lay. That position would be reinstated if the Narns committed themselves to war with the Shadows. The Kha'Ri had been furious to hear this.
But now, mere weeks later, by a stunning coincidence, 'evidence' had appeared of a Centauri deal with the Shadows. G'Kar would not like to think that the Kha'Ri had manufactured such evidence, but it was a possibility that could not be far from his mind. Both G'Kael and Na'Toth had considered that, although not aloud.
"A trick," G'Kael said at last. "But we cannot prove that, and I have no time to do it. My first duty, Ha'Cormar'ah, is to my people, as you know."
"Yes, I know. Very well, G'Kael. Approach the Council. I will try to.... dissuade them from committing to war with the Centauri. We do not have the resources to fight such a war yet anyway, not while we still fight the humans. But I fear we can only buy a little time.
"The Shadows have done this to force precisely this sort of action, G'Kael. We must do what we can to ensure their success is limited."
* * * * * * *
Time was short.
Ambassador Sheridan moved as fast as he could, rifling through the papers on Clark's desk, desperately trying to get into the files. Nothing was any help. The computer console had been purged from within, all the files destroyed. All the papers had been shredded, except one.
It was a simple white page, with two words written in Clark's scribbled hand.
Scorched Earth.
Scorched Earth.
The words filled Sheridan with fear. What was Clark going to do here? Where had that secret passage taken him? This whole building was filled with emergency escape tunnels - he could have gone anywhere.
And he had sent away his secretary and all the Security from this part of the building. It would take time to recall them. Everything would take time, time he did not have.
The Shadow was by the window. It seemed to be staring up into the sky.
Fortunately there was one person who could help, if he got here fast enough. If he wanted to help.
The door chimed, and Sheridan looked up. At last! "Come in!" he barked. The door opened, and in walked two security guards. Between them walked Welles. His face was covered in bruises and he limped slightly, but his eyes were as aware and as alert as always.
"You may leave," Sheridan told the security guards.
"We apologise, sir," said one of them. "We are not to leave this one alone anywhere other than in his cell. Direct orders from the President himself, sir. That may only be countermanded by his own word."
"The President is.... indisposed at present. You have my instructions to leave."
"That is impossible, sir."
Sheridan sighed. They did not have time for this. Fortunately another realised this as well, and was more than capable of taking action.
The Shadow moved with a speed neither guard could anticipate. Space folded around it as it shimmered into invisibility. There was a blur of movement, a spray of blood and an anguished cry, and moments later both guards were dead.
"You didn't have to do that," Welles said softly.
"Yes, I did," said Sheridan. "We don't have time. None of us has any time at all."
"What's happened here?" Welles' cool gaze took in the bloodstains on the wall, the pile of shredded paper and the broken body of the dead Shadow.
"This," Sheridan said, thrusting the piece of paper into Welles' hand. He took it awkwardly in broken fingers. "Clark's planning something. Clark and the Vorlons. They're controlling him, and they're up to.... I don't know what, but it is going to be very bad. He's vanished through one of his secret passages. He's gone somewhere.
"What I need to know is where he's gone, and just where on this whole planet the Vorlons have been hiding all this time!"
"I thought you knew everything."
"Clark was damned good at keeping secrets, even from me. But no one can keep secrets from you. That's what you do, isn't it?
"So where is he, and where are the Vorlons?"
"Why should I tell you?"
"Because if you don't, then God alone knows what's going to happen! Scorched Earth?"
"Let him do what he likes. We don't deserve to be saved."
"What?" Sheridan breathed. He stumbled back. "How can you say that?"
"You're talking to someone who had an unborn baby murdered less than three weeks ago. I've studied humanity all my life, and I'm telling you we do not deserve to be saved."
"How can you...? Listen to me! I don't know why you went into this job, but I know why I did. I wanted to help people. I wanted to do what was right. It took us all centuries to build a society based on freedom and rights, but the thing about freedom is that it brings responsibility. That's the point! We have to give some things back to the society that raised us. I tried to teach that to my children, and I'd teach it to my grandchildren.
"I can't just sit back and watch people die if there's anything I can do to prevent it."
"You just killed two people," Welles noted.
"And if it saves millions, then was it worth it? Dammit, Welles! Help me!"
Welles closed his eyes and sighed. A soft tremor shook his body, and he said one word. "Vicky." Then he opened them again. "What would these Vorlons need? What resources, what sort of environment, what?"
"They took over Clark. That implies they'd be with someone or somewhere he was involved with a lot. They'd prefer to be as near the top of the scale as possible. Maybe not the Government itself, but close. Someone powerful, but a behind-the-scenes player. I'd take a guess at someone behind a member of the Round Table."
"Ah, yes. Them. Someone Clark would visit regularly?"
"He'd have to. The control must have been very slight to prevent me noticing. They'd have to reinforce it at regular intervals."
"IPX," Welles said slowly. "He's been having secret, private meetings with someone there for months, maybe longer. He's always gone alone. What was happening there.... I was never able to find out, but they've got a huge complex, a lot of illegal weapons and other research, and a good number of off-world holdings and interests."
"IPX," Sheridan said. "Yes, that makes sense. So is that where Clark's going to be?"
"Possible," Welles admitted. "There are secret passageways from here to there. That's.... ah, that's how he disappeared. Have you tried finding the doorway from here?"
"No. There wouldn't be time."
"Very wise of you. There's a time-coded lock on the other side. Once he's activated it, you can't open the door from this side. It's a security measure to stop anyone trying to follow him."
"Well, that doesn't matter. If he's in the IPX headquarters, even underground, then he's a dead man. Him and all his Vorlon friends."
Welles started. "What are you going to do?"
"We don't have time for a ground assault, to send Security in, break out the army, anything like that. They're obviously ready to move, and we've got the Alliance over our heads right now.
"So.... we'll go for an air assault."
"Air assault.... but the dome...." Realisation dawned in Welles' eyes. "Oh my God."
"You have to sacrifice the few to save the many," Sheridan whispered.
"Then how does that make you different from Clark?"
"I'm on the side of the angels."
"Funny," said Welles, his eyes dark. "I'll bet that's just what he's saying."
* * * * * * *
Tirivail of the Storm Dancers clan could hear the sound of battle, and for one instant she wondered if it was the sound of her companions fighting Sinoval's treacherous soldiers or the sound of a combat a thousand years old.
She could feel the power in this place. It was a holy place, not just to the Tak'cha but to her people as well, a place where the ancestors had walked, where legends had stood. She could hear their words, feel their inner strength, witness their ancient struggles.
It had been she who had noticed that Kozorr had wandered off, and also she who had worked out where he would have gone. Gripped by a strange, dark feeling she could not explain, she had gathered Rastenn and the others and gone to find him, moving quickly.
They had found family and friends, kith and kin, wearing bands that proclaimed their allegiance, and standing guard with pikes raised. There had been a moment's hesitation, and then battle had been joined, Minbari against Minbari, warrior against warrior, all set upon strength and skill and prowess and will.
As it had been in the old days.
Tirivail had caught a brief glimpse of Kozorr inside the room, and had seized an opportunity to dart into the chamber. A figure was standing over him, pike raised. For a moment time shifted slightly, and she was sure she saw a tall warrior, bearing the mark of a clan long dead. Without thought, she struck, and as her pike connected, she saw who it was.
"You should be more careful," she said to Kozorr, a faint smile on her face. "But then...." She turned to look at Kats. The strike had not been a harsh one, not a killing blow. "So should she."
"No," Kozorr whispered, trying to rise, but his crippled body would not permit him. It was a tragedy, such a vibrant will imprisoned by a weakened and injured body. She did not love him any the less for his deformity, but he could not believe that, of course.
"Come," she said, bending over to take his hand. "There is battle outside. You will be needed."
"No," said another voice, a surprisingly forceful one. Tirivail turned to see the little worker rising to her feet. She still held Kozorr's pike. "We should not be fighting each other," she said, holding the weapon inexpertly.
"Silence, traitor. Lord Sonovar should have killed you when he was able."
"I am no traitor, not to the Minbari, not to the Grey Council, not to anyone." Tirivail saw Kozorr flinch. "But this is not the way. We should not be fighting each other."
"We did for thousands of years before Valen came. We will do so again."
"And where will that take us? Our world is dead, our people scattered to the three winds, our cities rubble and our shrines empty ruins. We should be working together to rebuild, not merely creating more dead bodies."
"Spoken like a true worker. Go back to your little den and build walls and bridges. Let us rule, as we were always meant to."
"Always? You do not see, do you? We have been three working as one. You fight, we build, they pray. And together, our people are strengthened. Apart, we wither and die." Kats paused. "Ask Kozorr."
"He is a warrior! He knows the way the galaxy is."
Kats turned instinctively to look at Kozorr. Tirivail could see him out of the corner of her eye. His head was bowed, his body shaken by racking coughs. His weak leg was twisted.
Tirivail's heart wept to see him like this, but she was a warrior, and she knew the value of action over sentimentality.
She darted forward, aiming for a paralysing blow rather than a killing one. Her last strike had been weakened due to her mis-perception of what she was striking. This one would not be. She was a trained warrior, Kats just a worker holding a pike even a master could not wield well.
Kozorr's pike seemed to move in Kats' hands. There was a flick of her wrist, and the pike knocked aside Tirivail's thrust. The warrior stepped back, eyes darkening.
"I am only a mere worker," Kats said softly, "but a warrior I knew once, and loved always, told me that it has been said that weapons can.... over time.... become moulded by their owners, guided by the spirits of those who bore the pike in times past." She smiled sadly. "A silly superstition, is it not?"
Tirivail paled. She was a warrior. A thousand years had passed since the great days of the warriors, the days of duels and glorious deaths and immortalisation in poetry. A thousand years of peace were shouting at her.... but she still believed. The old ways spoke to her, and in the depths of her heart she truly believed that her ancestors watched her always, that ghosts protected holy places.... and that weapons could be guided by the spirits of their former owners.
But Kozorr had wielded that pike less than two years. She had never heard, even in the darkest legends, of any pike becoming a spirit blade in such a short time.
She launched forward in another attack. Kats parried it. Tirivail spun on the balls of her feet and darted past Kats' guard, dancing effortlessly in a pattern of attack her clan's Sechs had developed. Kats moved slowly to match her.
Tirivail rained blows down on Kats, and each one was blocked, although with difficulty. There were.... weaknesses in Kats' defence. Tirivail could not explain this, any more than she could explain how Kats could wield the weapon at all. The guidance of Kozorr's spirit was the only possibility.
But that meant....
It meant that Kozorr did truly love this worker after all. It meant that the bravest, strongest, most noble warrior Tirivail had ever known loved a worker rather than her.
Screaming with fury, she continued to attack. Time and space continued to shift, and she was on Minbar once again, on her family's training ground, practising with the denn'bok while her father watched.
Lanniel was defending, crafting an effortless wall of movement and parry, draining every attack. Every advance broke on her wall, and finally Tirivail slumped to the ground, defeated.
No! Not this time!
Her attack smashed Kozorr's pike from Kats' hands and the force of the impact drove the worker to the floor. Eyes blind with rage, not knowing where or when she was, Tirivail lunged in for the kill.
There was a distant cry from someone she ought to know, but did not, and a blur of motion. In one terrible instant she realised what was happening and tried to reverse her attack, but instinct was too finely ingrained. Generation after generation of warrior training in her blood worked against her.
Kozorr's crippled body could move at last. He formed another shield, one Tirivail could destroy all too easily. The edge of her pike tore into his body.
There was a rush of blood, an anguished cry, and then.... silence.
She dropped her pike and sank to her knees, head bowed. She knew Kats was saying something, but she did not hear it. The words were not meant for her, after all, but for the one they both loved, the one she had just killed.
"Is he dead?" she whispered at last. It was a killing blow, she knew that. He might still live, if his will held. It might not be fatal.... yet. But she knew with a sick certainty that it would kill him eventually.
"No," came the soft reply.
"You were right. We should not be fighting each other."
There was noise and movement from the other side of the room. "Tirivail!" came a cry. It was Rastenn, the euphoria of victory in his voice. "We have prisoners, two of them."
"Let them go," she said hollowly.
"What?"
"Let them go!"
"Sinoval is waiting for you," said Kats softly. "He is in the Grey Council Hall. He is alone."
"I know where that is." Tirivail rose to her feet and picked up her pike. "We will end this, and when it is.... done.... I will come back. Kozorr, can you.... hear me?"
"I think he can."
"You.... were right. Take your pretty little worker, be with her." Her eyes shifted to meet Kats'. "I...." She tried to say something, but no words would come.
"I know," Kats whispered, tears in her eyes.
Tirivail could not hold that gaze for long. She broke away and turned to Rastenn. He had seen Kozorr's body, and his face paled. He had idolised Kozorr, dreamed of modelling himself in his pattern.
"We will find Sinoval," she said to him, and he looked at her. "We will end this."
"Yes," said Rastenn, a dark hatred in his voice. "We will end this."
* * * * * * *
There was a lesson Corwin remembered the Captain teaching him once. It was about fear, and something he claimed to have picked up from one of his earliest commanding officers.
Fear has no place during a battle. Before, yes. And after sometimes. But never during. There are two types of soldiers: the one who wants to win, and the one who is afraid to lose. Both can be good. Damned good. But in a match between the two, there's no doubt who'll win.
Don't be afraid during a battle. Think about what is. Think about what you have to return to, not about what you might lose.
The Captain had taught him a great many things, and most of them he had learned to heed. Not this one. He was afraid, but not of dying. He was afraid of living. Afraid of what was going to come out of all this.
It was not just him. There was a palpable sense of fear over the whole bridge. He could see some of the crew shaking. It wasn't just fear of battle. These were experienced soldiers, who'd been fighting almost constantly as far back as they could remember. There was something.... expectant in the air, a feeling that something very, very bad was going to happen.
Even the ship seemed to feel it. From time to time while he had been on the Agamemnon he had felt something that seemed like a heartbeat, thudding through the armrest of his chair. It could be just his imagination, but it seemed to be beating faster now.
"Are you there?" he thought to himself. "Is anyone there, or am I really losing my mind?" He had felt so many strange things about this ship, and he was not the only one. Neeoma flat out refused to come on board any more, and several members of other crews had resigned, or moved to the normal support ships. There had even been a handful of suicides.
What had those Vorlons done here? What were they willing to do for all this?
In fact, the only person who seemed unaffected by these Dark Stars was the Captain himself, but then he had changed so much in recent months anyway.
Are you there? Corwin thought to himself again as the gap in space opened and the Agamemnon swept into normal space with the rest of the fleet.
Help me!
He started, sitting forward. Had someone said something? He looked around, but none of the bridge crew was looking at him. He was sure he had heard something, but it wasn't a voice he recognised.
He shook his head, trembling. There were a million explanations. Radio interference, perhaps. Strange things happened in hyperspace. Or maybe simple stress.
Whatever it was, rational thought fled as he found himself staring at the fleet ready to oppose him. Human ships, crewed by his contemporaries, people he knew, people he had met, liked, befriended.
And next to them, the Shadow ships.
Destroy them! cried a voice, one he could not identify, and just beneath that, a soft echo came. Help me.
There were no words that needed to be spoken, no orders that needed to be given. It was as if the ships knew what they were doing and the crews were merely along for the ride.
The Dark Stars swept forward, and battle was joined.
* * * * * * *
He watched and listened as she talked, happy to let her do so. He knew something of the trauma she had recently been through. The doctors here might not be well provisioned or well paid or well supplied, but they were thorough and they knew their job. For most of them it was a calling.
She showed little sign of her grief. Although her words lacked the conviction of their previous conversation, her genuine sincerity remained.
Dexter Smith was still unable to explain, even to himself, why he was risking so much to help Delenn. A little voice in his mind, Talia's voice, said he owed Delenn nothing. She was the enemy. They had undertaken a mission to rescue her, and they had been paid for it, and that was that. Mission accomplished, job done, go home.
But another part of him pointed out that Delenn was not the enemy. She was someone who had been terribly, terribly hurt, and needed help, needed company, needed someone.
"We have talked before," she said hesitantly, after a while. "I know you...."
"Dexter Smith. Formerly Captain in Earthforce. I arrested you on Babylon Four."
She smiled in recognition. "Yes, I remember now. What happened? Why are you not with your army any more?"
"Ah.... I was asked to explain some.... things about that whole incident I really couldn't explain. I resigned to avoid a scandal, with an honourable discharge due to 'ill health'. To be honest, I just couldn't do it any more. When I joined Earthforce it was to get away from here. Then later it was a simple matter of good and evil. We were good, you were evil, and that was that.
"I saw just a bit too much and...." He sighed. "I didn't know where I was going, what I was doing.... what. So I decided to wind down a notch, come back here and try to work things out."
"Ah," she said, nodding. "A soul quest, yes. Some of our people have been known to do similar things, when they realise they are known only by their positions, by what they are, rather than who they are.
"Tell me, Captain Smith, do you know who you are now?"
"I'm getting there," he admitted. "And it's plain old Mr. Smith these days. Or Dexter even. Just not Dex."
"I apologise," she said. She made to smile, but then a look of pain crossed her face, and she began to cough. Flecks of blood stained her mouth.
"Are you all right?" said Smith, starting. "Let me get a doctor."
"No," she whispered weakly. "It is.... only to be expected.... after what has happened. I can...." She closed her eyes. "I can still hear his heart beating...." She began coughing again.
"I'm going to get a doctor," he said again, rising from his chair by her side. She tried to say something, but clearly could not. He moved quickly from her room to the adjacent corridor. To his surprise there was no one there. He took a glance in the nearest room. It was empty. And then the next one.
That was empty too.
In fact, there was no one around.
He might have retired from Earthforce but he had been a soldier for a long time, and some instincts remained. They were all screaming at him. There was the sound of movement outside, and he began to panic. Racing back to Delenn's room, he scooped up the PPG he had laid next to the chair.
"What is it?" Delenn whispered.
"Trouble," he replied softly. "Can you walk?"
"If I must."
"Trust me, you must. I think someone's discovered you're here. Come on." He reached for her and gently helped her out of the bed. She swayed against him and almost fell. "Just move as quickly as you can," he said. "We've got to get out of here."
"Where?"
"I don't know." Slowly, he began to guide her towards the back door. "I would have said Bo's, but I went to him before. Maybe he...." He shook his head. "No, I can't believe Bo would do that. But.... Damn, we've been much too careless. Doctors, helpers, anyone could have found out you're here."
"We don't know.... they.... know...."
A window exploded as a rock came flying through it. Smith started as it landed at his feet. There was the sound of angry voices outside. He could not identify words, and he did not want to.
"Oh, they know all right. There must be another way out of here."
"Why...?" She coughed again. "Why are you helping me?"
"Someone has to."
"No," she said seriously. "No one has to. I would not blame you if you chose to leave me here. I have done much to deserve that."
"Well, what can I say? I always wanted to be a hero. Look, someone has to be the good guy, and it might as well be me. In the grand scale of things my life doesn't mean much. Yours does. Now come on, we have to get out the back."
"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you."
"Hey, don't thank me until we're out of this."
Slowly, they moved on. More windows broke, but they were all front-facing ones. Maybe they had not got round the back. Smith was thinking of places to go, places to hide. There was an alley not far away that led out to another abandoned building. They could hide there for a while. It would be hard to conceal Delenn, of course. Even apart from her headbone she was pretty conspicuous in her white hospital gown.
Still, all they had to do was get away from here. They could try to get in touch with Welles. He would be able to do something.
Smith pushed open the back door, and swore loudly.
There was a crowd waiting for them. Several people were carrying weapons, and dark glares were burning in their eyes. There were angry cries.
And standing in the front row, a look of triumph on his face, arms folded across his chest, was Trace.
He was smiling.
* * * * * * *
Klaxons continued to blare across Proxima. Wherever they were heard they aroused panic and terror. People had long memories. Some scrambled into underground blast shelters, families huddled together, reliving days they had thought were long gone. Others stumbled outside, looking up into the sky, waiting for the first sight of the alien ships descending on their world.
If anyone in the business sector had done that they would indeed have seen an alien ship descending on their world, but this was not a Minbari warship, not a Dark Star, or a Narn cruiser, or a Drazi Sunhawk, or any other Alliance ship.
It was a Shadow vessel. A ship belonging to humanity's allies, their saviours, their guardians against all the things that threatened the human race.
The dome shattered as it crashed through the glittering surface, shards raining down upon the buildings and people below. It turned and bore down on the Edgars Building, the headquarters of Interplanetary Expeditions.
It fired. Windows shattered. Walls exploded. The building began to collapse.
Somewhere beneath the building, in a hidden, reinforced underground complex, two men stood before another one. The room was shaking around them.
"How strong is this place?" asked the younger. "Can that thing blow us up?"
"Eventually, yes. There were limits to just how strong we could make this complex without alerting the Enemy. It will however take time.... and that is on our side."
"Is it ready?"
A thin smile stretched across his features. "Yes, the network is ready. The Dark Stars are here, and unknowingly they bring our salvation with them. All we have to do is open this link."
Mr. Edgars stepped forward, looking up at the still form of Byron. There was a low humming noise, which had been growing louder and louder. Lights began to sparkle around the wall, illuminating Byron's body. His eyes flicked open, and from deep within them came a brighter and brighter-glowing light.
"Mr. Byron," said Edgars, stepping back and breathing in sharply. "This is your wake-up call."
Above them all, the Shadow ship continued to fire.
* * * * * * *
Smith moved first, instincts honed by back-alley brawls and Earthforce training. He darted in front of Delenn as the first rock was thrown. She stumbled as he pushed her back, but the rock missed her.
"It is her!" cried one voice.
"I told you so," said Trace. "It's her. He's the one that hid her here."
Some of the crowd moved forward, and Smith gently tried to push Delenn back into the doorway. She would not move.
"Stop this!" Smith cried. "This isn't...."
"Oh, but it is!" snapped Trace. "She's Minbari. She's Delenn herself. We all know who she is, what she's done! You're trying to protect her!" He turned to face the crowd. "The big war hero here would rather protect the Minbari than fight them!"
There was another forward surge, and another projectile was thrown. It struck Smith on the shoulder, and he grunted. "Go," he said to Delenn. "I'll try and hold them off.... as much as I can."
"No," she said softly.
"What? They'll kill you, for God's sake. Just go!"
"I know," she said. Gently she pushed him aside, and he stumbled. She walked forward and stood to face the crowd. They stopped, puzzled. "I am sorry," she said to them simply. "I am sorry."
"Sorry?" cried one. "Sorry?" said another. "That ain't enough!" "Not by half!"
"I know," she said again. "Words can never undo what has been done. They cannot restore the dead to your side, nor erase all the years of grief. The past can never be changed.
"But the future can be healed. The past can be remembered, and honoured, and still we can look to the future. I came here to this world, to say this. To say I am sorry."
There was a stunned silence. Smith turned to look at Trace, and saw confusion in the man's eyes. For a moment, all was still. For one moment the entire crowd paused, and history took a breath.
And then God blinked.
Someone threw a stone. It hit Delenn squarely on the leg, and she stumbled. With that, another projectile was launched, a bottle, rocks, cans, rubbish. Smith tried to intervene, but he could do nothing. Delenn fell to the ground as more and more was hurled at her. Countless cuts bled.
"Wait a minute!" Trace said at last, and the people stopped. Slowly, Delenn tried to rise. Smith went to her and offered her his arm. She leant on him, and for one moment looked into his eyes. Then she bowed her head.
"Wait a minute," said Trace again. "The Government were going to give her a trial, so they said. Do things proper and by the book, and so should we.
"But our justice isn't their justice. They've got lawyers, and fancy defences, and diplomatic concerns. We've got none of that here. We've got three-o-one justice, and we'll do this fairly.... but we'll do it our way. Anyone here want to, say, put the evidence for the prosecution, as it were?"
There was a pause, and Delenn was visibly shaking against Smith. He tried to shepherd her back towards the door, but she would not move.
"I'll say some things," said someone. The crowd parted, and an old man hobbled forward. Trace's eyes narrowed. Smith turned to look at the emerging figure and made to say something, but the words failed.
His gait was twisted, one leg dragging along, withered and bent. There were dark burn marks down the side of his face, and one eye was a mass of black scar tissue.
"You don't know who I am, do you?" he said to Delenn. She said nothing in reply. "Name's Duncan," he said after a while. "Wasn't a soldier, wasn't a scientist or a big fancy diplomat. Just a man who carved things and sold them in the market.
"Was on a passenger ship, me, my wife, my daughter. Wasn't military or nothing. Your people attacked us, blew it up good and then left us floating in space. Me.... I was lucky, maybe. I got out alive, after all. Only three of us did. Wife and daughter.... well.... That was nine years ago. Been living here ever since, just.... I don't know. Just remembering.
"Don't hate you or nothing. Just.... wanted to know. Why? Why did you do it all?"
"It...." Delenn breathed out. "It was a...." She shook. "It was a mistake."
"Ah," said Duncan. He nodded, and then turned and hobbled back towards the crowd.
"See!" said Trace. "A mistake? What kind of justification is that? Is that any way to explain all the dead, all the injured, all the lives lost? That's no excuse in my book." He looked at Smith, and the dark light of triumph burned in his eyes.
"Now, not that I see the point, but these things must be done fairly, I suppose. Does anyone want to speak for her?"
Smith moved, but Delenn reached out to touch his chest, and he fell back. "I will speak," she coughed. She stepped forward. "I.... am sorry. For everything. For those who died, for those who were hurt, for those who lost their lives and their loves and their souls.
"And I am sorry for all of you, for all those who have been lost, for those who have walked through the last sixteen years alone and afraid and in darkness.
"What we did was wrong, and I am sorry. But our people have known loss and grief and darkness just as yours have. They have learned to hate, just like you. This cycle cannot continue. Unless it is ended, both our races will be destroyed. And if it takes one more death to end this.... then that is what must be paid."
She stepped forward and spread her arms wide. "I came here for many reasons. To explain, to say I was sorry.... but most importantly to end this cycle, to set aside finally the ways of hate and death that have engulfed us all for sixteen years. And if I must die to do that.... then I will die."
"No!" cried Smith.
"Then I will die," she said again.
There was a whispered hush over the crowd. Some shook their heads, some spoke in soft tones to their friends. Some moved forward, brandishing weapons.
It was Trace who was the first to speak aloud. "Yeah," he said. "You'll die. That's what you deserve, after all. What all your kind deserve."
"Me, perhaps," she replied. "But not all Minbari. If any of you learn anything from today, learn this. The sins of the one do not carry through to the many."
"I think we should kill her now," he said. "Just so we don't have to listen to any more Minbari philosophy." There was nervous laughter. Smith moved forward. "And there's just the person to do it," Trace said. "Our executioner, so kindly come forward. Well.... you are going to accept this offer, aren't you? Or are you going to take her part over that of your own people?"
"No!" Smith cried. "This isn't right."
"It is right," Delenn said. "I came here to touch people. Maybe I have reached you.... If so, then my death will not be a waste. If just one person takes something good away from this...."
"I can't do it."
"You must.... or they will kill you as well, and then my death will not mean anything. You cannot protect me from everything. You have done more than enough for me already, and I thank you for it.... but this you must do."
"I...."
"I do not blame you."
"I'm.... I'm.... sorry."
"And so am I."
"Here you are," said Trace, tossing over a PPG. "That'll do it nicely. A bit quick, but then I forgot to bring the nails for a crucifixion, so this will have to do."
"Damn you," he hissed.
"Never gonna happen. Why? I'm the good guy, remember. After everything she's done, I can't help but be the good guy. That's a nice feeling. I'll have to be the good guy again."
"Do it!" cried someone from the crowd. There was half-hearted encouragement, but the fury seemed to have gone out of them.
"Yes," Trace said, sensing this. "Do it."
"Go on," Delenn said. "I am not afraid. If you see John.... No. He knows. I will meet him again."
"Do it!" cried Trace again.
Smith raised the weapon.
Delenn closed her eyes.
"Do it!"
He fired.
Delenn's body fell.