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| Volume 5: Among the Stars, like Giants | Part VIII: Among the Stars, like Giants |
THE Great War ended in 2275, that much is certain. The exact nature of its end is unclear, even now, and will probably remain so.
Certain things are known. The Vorlons surrendered after the Second Battle of Babylon 5. As part of the terms of their surrender, they left this galaxy, as the Shadows had left fourteen years before. At some point during all this, the Blessed Delenn was killed. However, even here, there are uncertainties. There are many reports that General John Sheridan was involved in the battle, and brokered the terms of the surrender. This in spite of the fact that General Sheridan is known to have died at Babylon 5 at the beginning of the war, over twelve years earlier.
However, there were mysteries surrounding Sheridan's death, and there had been rumours all through the war that he had not died at all, but been kept a prisoner by the Vorlons, perhaps in suspended animation, which might explain his lack of ageing over the last twelve years.
Some say that the Blessed Delenn was not present at Babylon 5 at all. After all, she had almost entirely vanished from public life at the beginning of the war. There are many rumours, but very little fact. If she was there, she has not been seen since. If it was in fact General Sheridan who fought in the battle, then he played no part in the peace that followed, and while there were occasional sightings of a man who might have been him over the next few months, nothing was ever confirmed.
As for Sinoval, his fate is as mysterious as his life. It is known that Cathedral was at the battle, along with several other massive, ancient ships that could only be the First Ones. It is also known that they abandoned Babylon 5 towards the end of the battle, when victory was certain, and disappeared into hyperspace. Several ships accompanied them, including that captained by Marrain. The immediately adjacent sector of hyperspace demonstrated evidence of fighting, but the area was even more chaotic than normal for hyperspace, and no further investigations could be carried out.
There were several sightings of Sinoval after this battle. While some of these may be dismissed as hoax or error, some are more credible, such as the one at Tarolin 2 a year later, an incident often discussed by conspiracy theorists. L'Neer of Narn was convinced he was dead, but she also seemed to think that would not stop him returning. It is known, however, that the Aliens have not been seen in this universe since that day.
That is yet another mystery, one which will probably never be answered.
Williams, G. D. (2298) The Great War: A Study.
* * * * * * *
The stars burned with light again. Life forms swam between them, creatures that had once moved through space as easily as if it were a river. They had been dead for millions of years, but now they lived again, awakened from a terror-haunted sleep, ready to explore this new universe in which they found themselves - similar to the old, but different in every way that mattered.
For now there was only one world that bore life, but there would be others soon. This one world was a garden, festooned with all manner of life and wonder. Some of it was beautiful, some ugly, some sentient, some mindless, some humanoid, some utterly alien.
But all of it was alive.
None of them truly understood what had happened, not even the oldest and wisest and most powerful. Most of these had already left, seeking other worlds and other homes, looking for answers, looking for memories.
One thing all the sentient races did remember, was a call. A summons from a God who ruled a fortress which floated high in the sky. Some of them searched for this fortress, but it was nowhere to be found.
There was one being, last of his race, as they were all the last of their races, who could hear the call. He walked between the stars, his form shifting and dancing with the simple pleasure of life. He remembered the creatures which had hunted down his people and all others. He was one of the eldest of this universe, and he heard it.
It took him much longer to work out what it was, where that strange, beautiful sound was coming from. On a black and barren world, dead for years immemorial, as he looked down upon a single plant that had begun to grow from the dead earth, he finally understood.
It was the song of a living universe.
* * * * * * *
He was home at last.
The ancient estates of House Marrago were several days away from the capital, in the foothills of the mountains. Set in some of the most beautiful land on the continent, they were a reward to House Marrago for centuries of loyal service.
House Marrago served Emperors. It did not make them. Not any more.
Marrago walked through the abandoned corridors of his ancestral house, not really expecting to find anyone. Black smoke-marks adorned the walls, and broken glass was scattered across the floor. The fine carpets had been torn up and burned, the tapestries and paintings were gone. He looked briefly into his study and saw charred paper piled in a circle on the floor, where the books had evidently been used to feed a fire.
He took one look at his master bedroom and turned away. No Lord Marrago had died there in over two hundred years. Every one of them had fallen to far-off war, the intrigues of the Court, rebellion in distant provinces or, in one notorious and embarrassing case, the bed of a married noblewoman. The Lords Marrago did not tend to die in their own beds.
The house was gone, as the House itself would be. Jorah Marrago would be the last. He had no wife, no children. Oh, he could adopt someone perhaps, as he had adopted Lyndisty all those years ago, but he knew he would not. Let the House die. The past was gone now, burned away in fire and war. The future would need new warriors, new ways, new lords.
There was even talk of abandoning Centauri Prime altogether, of shifting the centre of Government somewhere else. Immolan, perhaps, or Gorash. Marrago did not care. He had come home, however burned and ravaged that home was.
He walked through a kitchen filled with the stench of rotting food, and a training room stained with blood and vomit.
He did not know what had happened here. A group of bandits and outlaws? An Inquisitorial purge? Simple abandonment to the ravages of time and greed?
There was no one here, but then he had not been expecting anyone.
He went finally to his garden. He had deliberately left it until last. He, a man who had faced Shadows and Vorlons and Aliens and Sinoval himself without a hint of fear, was afraid of what he would find there.
Mercifully, it was not that bad. The flowers had all died of course, and the fountain had been smashed, the water long since poured away. There was a bare patch just in front of the gazebo where no grass grew. Some of the statues were shattered, but some were intact.
The rest was just nature reclaiming its own. The hedges were overgrown, the weeds wild and untamed. The ancient silverthorn tree had spread its branches over half the herb garden, its leaves cutting off the light and leaving the plants below to die.
Standing at the top of the garden, Marrago looked around, thinking over what needed to be done as methodically as he had planned any battle he had ever fought.
It could be fixed. His house might be in ruins, but his garden could be repaired.
With a slight smile, he set to work.
* * * * * * *
"Care to explain why we're here again?"
David Corwin did not answer immediately. He simply continued his walk, Zack following, grumbling to himself. David looked at the scenery around him, marvelling at the rebirth of life from death.
"This is where it started," he said, finally. "The Alliance, the feeling that there was something good that could come out of all this evil. Kazomi Seven is where it all began. I just wanted to see the place."
"Hey, I'm not complaining. After being stuck on Proxima all that time, I'm glad to be somewhere else, but...." Zack paused. "Hey, I've just realised. When exactly did a whole planet become too small to spend ten years? Time was no one ever left Earth, back in the day. Or even their home city sometimes."
"Things have changed," David said. "We've looked up, looked out, realised just how much more there is in the galaxy to see. Proxima was small, too small. We need to look to something bigger."
"Hence the sightseeing tour?"
"Precisely."
A small crowd had gathered up ahead of them, and David walked towards it. There was a mass of races there, Narns, Drazi, Brakiri, even a human or two. This was the first time he had seen different alien races united in one place since he had left Proxima. Since the war had ended, everyone had retreated into their own groups - with a few exceptions, like the Drazi and Brakiri.
They were gathered around a small shrine. David thought he recognised it, but he hadn't been on Proxima for years. John had talked at one point about a shrine Delenn had ordered built, he recalled. A memorial to the dead of the Drakh invasion, or something like that?
"She's here," said an excited Brakiri. "I can feel her."
"Who?" David asked. The Brakiri looked at him as if he were mad, and pushed forward to the front of the crowd.
"Delenn," said a human voice. David turned to see a man standing next to him. He was dressed in ragged clothes, a strip of cloth tied over his eyes. He looked like a pilgrim. All he needed was a wooden staff and a long white beard and the image would be complete. Maybe a mad prophet?
"I'd heard she was dead," David said. That had hurt. He had known from Susan that Delenn was alive, but he had not seen her since Golgotha. They might as well all have been dead to him trapped on Proxima, but to get out and discover the truth - how she had died at the very last of the war.... That had hurt.
"Yes," the man said. "I killed her. The first time. I sometimes think everything that has happened since then was just a dream."
"Are you.... all right?" David asked, puzzled.
"If you mean, am I mad, then the answer is no. Not any more. I was mad for a very long time, but I'm sane now. I sometimes wonder if that's a blessing or a curse."
"I know what you mean."
The man looked at him, and David felt uncomfortably as if he was being studied intently, despite the man's blindness. Then the man nodded. "You might just. It was good to see you, if you'll pardon the figure of speech." The blind man turned away.
"Bizarre," Zack commented.
"Hmm. I'd go for interesting, myself. Delenn's become a near-saint, by the looks of things."
"Oh, that happened long ago. There was a shrine to her on Proxima, remember?"
"Yes, that's right. Come on, time to head elsewhere."
"You're the boss."
Another building came into view as they walked. It had originally been tall, until some disaster had blown away the top few storeys. It had never been repaired, the Vorlons having kept it as it was as a reminder of the enemy they faced.
There were two Drazi standing guard at the door. Both of them looked tough, even tougher than was usual for Drazi. One had an intricate pattern of scars across his face. The other had only one arm. War veterans, probably of the fighting at Zhabar. David had heard many stories about what had happened there. He didn't want to believe most of them.
"No entry," the scarred one said.
"I'm looking for General Kulomani? Or.... General Vizhak?"
"Merchant-Lord Kulomani is busy," said the one-armed guard, stressing Kulomani's new title. "And so is Governor Vizhak."
"Then they are here. Good.... I'd heard. Can you get a message to them?"
"Which part of 'they're busy' did you not get, human?"
"Tell them someone who was at Golgotha is here."
"Listen, you...." snapped the one-armed Drazi, moving forward. The scarred Drazi stopped him.
"We'll send the message."
"Fine, but if this is a joke, human, I'm using your head as an ornament."
"No joke," David assured him.
It was a long five minutes. Zack looked more nervous than David. "What if they don't remember this Golgotha place?"
"They will," David said. "No one who was there would forget it. They might not remember my name, but they'll remember that."
"And I take it this vitally important meeting is another reason we came here?"
"I'd heard they were here, trying to negotiate hyperspace trade routes. Kazomi Seven lies in the middle of several of them. I wasn't sure, but I did want to see the planet, and.... I have to talk to them both."
"I have a bad feeling about this."
"You don't have to be here."
"There's nothing for me back on Proxima."
"What about Julia?"
"That's.... ah.... she's a little.... um.... that's none of your business."
Zack was spared further explanation by the reply to David's message. Not surprisingly both of them were to be admitted without delay.
* * * * * * *
The Purple Throne did not get any more comfortable the longer she sat on it. She had not really imagined it would. In fact, she would have been worried if it had. A throne was not meant to be a comfortable chair. It was for the dispensing of justice, the passing of laws and the intimidation of one's enemies. None of these were meant to be comfortable things.
Still, as she shifted in her seat, Timov, Lady Consort to Emperor Mollari II, thought that a cushion or two would not go amiss.
Durla Antignano was one for whom the chair would be altogether too comfortable. The light of ambition burned in his eyes. She could see that, although she pretended she could not.
It was not ambition for himself. She could understand that easily. Such men were common. They wanted power, and would destroy or shame anyone who stood in their way. The trouble was, no amount of power was enough for them. They were sad, pathetic men for the most part, jumping at shadows and seeing treason wherever they looked. Refa had been one such, along with countless others in Centauri history.
No, Durla wanted power for his people. He wanted the Centauri to be great again. He wanted them to be Empire-builders and warlords and leaders once again. He would slaughter and destroy whole planets to fulfill this ambition, without a second's thought.
Such men were far rarer, mercifully. But they were all the more dangerous when they did occur.
He was reporting to her now. The effects of the ending of the war. Food was short, of course. Their fleet was inadequate to patrol the Centauri borders. The homeworld's defence system was in ruins. The Government was broke. There were raiders and pirates near Immolan. There was no one worthy to replace Jorah as Lord-General. Some of the outlying provinces had broken free of the control of the Government.
Little good there.
"Your suggestions, Durla?" she asked. He would forgive the familiarity. He was, for all his faults, a true patriot. He had also been her sole ally for a very long time. As part of their ruse she had let it be rumoured that the two of them were having an affair. It provided an easy cover, and she had been vastly amused by how much Durla had been shocked by it.
He was very handsome, the gradual silvering in his hair giving him a distinguished appearance. She imagined him dressed in white, and inwardly shuddered.
"We will have to make sacrifices, lady," he said. "All of us, from Emperor to peasant." He would, too. He was a spartan, puritan man. No wife, no family, no gratuitous riches. He was a man of the old days and the old ways, and he sought a return to those days.
"The homeworld cannot be defended or even made secure at the moment. The Government should be relocated. The two most suitable worlds for the new base would be Immolan or Gorash. I would favour Gorash. Immolan is too isolated, and Gorash has the bulk of our food production."
"Abandon the homeworld?" she asked. It was not the first and it would not be the last time she had heard that idea.
"Between the war, the uprising, the Shadow Criers, the alien thing they unleashed over the capital, the Inquisition and this most recent event.... well, lady. The homeworld is finished. Let those who wish to stay, stay, but the Court should move."
She must have looked unimpressed, for he continued. "We would hardly be the first race to find a new homeworld, lady. The humans, of course. The Minbari evacuated Minbar for a time. The Narn.... I will be clear. This world is a drain upon our resources, and we cannot feed ourselves, let alone defend ourselves, if we cling on here. That is my recommendation, and that shall be my first course of action, lady. I inform you out of courtesy."
"I am grateful for that, Durla," she replied coolly. "I regret to say that my husband is still too ill to resume his duties."
"I wish him long health." And he did, that was one of the most annoying things about it.
A long time ago, the two of them had made a deal. As soon as their world was free, he would be Emperor and she and Londo would retire. Somehow, the Great Maker alone knew how, Londo had survived thus far. The laws concerning the governance of an Emperor were very clear. An Emperor could retire, naming his successor, but he had to address the Centarum himself on the matter. If he did not, the Centarum was free to recognise anyone it chose.
And that would mean another war.
Londo was as yet still too ill even to stand properly, let alone deliver a speech to the Centarum. Durla could not become Emperor, not officially, until that happened.
He could wait. He would wait, she knew it.
"So do we all," Timov said, a cold chill running through her body. She remembered Cartagia, and what Londo had said about his last prophecy.
"So do we all."
* * * * * * *
The blind man wandered through the streets calmly, with no sense of purpose. He did not bump into anything, did not trip over obstacles, did not falter, did not misstep even once. He was as blind as anyone who had torn out their own eyes rather than face what was in front of them, but he was guided to safety.
Kazomi 7 was not what it had once been, but then nowhere was. The old glories were gone now. Even the new glories were dust and ashes. He remembered Golgotha - that majestic, dead hall - and the story of the bloodshed that had filled it.
Kazomi 7, Centauri Prime, Narn, Zhabar, Brakir. Worlds consumed by fire and bloodshed to fuel the ambition and arrogance of others. Some had survived, but not as they had been.
Nothing remained of what had existed before the war.
At one time he had been confident and sure of himself. He had been handsome and ambitious. He had once been voted the seventh sexiest human man alive. He found himself idly wondering what had become of the other six.
He had been mad for a long, long time. Now, Dexter Smith was sane. He sometimes wished he could be mad again.
There had been something on Kazomi 7 worth looking for, but whatever it was, he had not found it. A shrine to Delenn, one like many others. But there was nothing there. Just a lot of pilgrims, as lost and bereft of hope as he was himself.
A rush of cold air greeted him and he realised he was in open ground. There was a smell of turned earth and a mustiness that spoke of dead air. He hesitated for a moment, and then he realised where he was.
A great many people had died on Kazomi 7. From the Drakh, from the Vorlons, from the war. Too many of them had known no home, no family, no name even. A plot of land had been set aside, and a pit dug. In theory all the dead were immortalised at the shrine Delenn had built, the shrine that was now devoted to her rather than the unknown to whom she had dedicated it.
This was where the dead had been laid to rest. Holy, sanctified ground, a place of rest, a place of peace. A place of....
Remembering.
He remembered the dreams he had had about that terrifying city - a city, no, a whole world, filled only with the dead. This was the place of which that city was a perversion. A place where the dead could be at peace, not in prison.
He walked forward, savouring the cool, chilly air. There were no markers here, but he did occasionally have to walk around offerings of various kinds. Some smelled of food, or pottery, or plants. Placed here, no doubt, by grieving relatives, or friends, or those who merely hoped their dead might be here, at least at peace.
He stopped for a moment as he became aware of someone ahead, but then he resumed his walk. He feared very little that was mortal and of the flesh. Everything he feared was a universe away - and dead, besides, from what he had heard.
"Who's there?" called out a voice in English. Human. Male. Mid-forties, perhaps.
"Just a wanderer," Dexter said. "I had a name once, but I fear it doesn't mean much any more." He extended a hand vaguely in the direction of the voice.
"Hah," said the other. "I've still got one, and it means too damned much." He took Dexter's hand. He was warm. "I went to the shrine once, but there were too many people there. I couldn't get near the place."
"I know. I was there myself. Delenn would have hated it."
"You knew her?" He sounded surprised.
"A long time ago. You?"
"For a while. And then, again. There was a time at the beginning and at the end, but everything in between.... I loved her."
"I think every man who ever met her did," Dexter admitted. "I certainly did."
"Really?" He sounded jealous. "When...? No, don't tell me. I don't want to know. Let the dead have their secrets, hmm?"
"No one else has any. I might head back later tonight. Maybe there will be fewer people there then."
"I won't. It wasn't for me. This.... place isn't for me. I don't know why I came, really. Too many people might recognise me. I just wanted to go somewhere she knew.... This was always her place, never mine. I was always busy." His voice took on a bitter tone. "Too damned busy."
"We see too much when it's too late."
"Do you believe in God?"
Dexter started. He would have blinked if he had had anything left to blink with. "I've met some," he said. "But that's probably not the same thing, is it?"
"I was never terribly religious. I never believed much in Heaven or Hell, but.... I've seen Hell, in far too many places."
"'Hell is other people,'" Dexter quoted.
"But most of these Hells, we made ourselves. Us, or people like us. Even the Vorlons, the Shadows.... they were like us once. Young and.... and helpless and ambitious, dreaming such great dreams, and then the dreams became nothing and all that remained was the power.... But I was thinking, if we can make Hell, then can't we make Heaven as well? If we wanted to badly enough."
"Yes," Dexter said simply.
"You sound pretty sure."
"Look at the Alliance. It didn't last long, admittedly, but it was there. Hope out of despair. And if it failed, it wasn't the fault of the dreamers. Or of the dream, for that matter. I was a leader myself, for a time. That didn't work out either, but we tried. It's better to try and fail.... well. You know what I mean."
"But it didn't work. None of it did."
"Does that mean we shouldn't try?"
"What do you think?"
"I think...." He paused. "I think we can create a Heaven. Maybe not forever, but nothing lasts forever. There are good people out there, and if enough of them work together, then.... who knows? And there are good people left. I overheard two of them talking at the shrine. About building something new. And as for the others.... Well, G'Kar's still alive, from what I hear, and that apprentice of his. It's funny, she was just a little girl the first time I saw her. Even then she had more wisdom than the rest of us put together, and she's learned a lot since then, I'll bet. Emperor Mollari's still alive. Kulomani and Vizhak survived. So did David Corwin, I know."
"Really? That.... that is good news. So many died.... I had almost forgotten those who survived."
"Easily done. Heh. I even heard rumours that General Sheridan is still alive, that he didn't die after all, or he was brought back, or something."
"Do you believe them?" the man said, a strange catch in his voice.
"It would be nice. But sometimes a rumour is just a rumour, and the past is better off dead. There'll be a new Delenn soon, and a new John Sheridan as well. All of this will start again, and hopefully next time they'll get it right."
"Then you won't get involved?"
"Me? No. I'm no leader any more, and I've made too many mistakes. I've got something to do here, but I don't know what it is yet."
"Well, good luck to you."
"And to you. I hope you find what you're looking for."
"Oh," the man said, thoughtfully, a little distantly. "I think I just have."
Dexter smiled and turned away, ambling slowly in another direction. The smell of the graveyard hung around him, not entirely unpleasantly. There had been something about that man, something almost familiar in his voice. Ah well, he had known a lot a people, and forgotten most of them. Those long years of insanity had done a lot to his memory.
Then a smell hit him, a familiar, tantalising smell, and he looked up, wishing for the first time since his revelatory dream at the end of the war, that he could see properly.
He moved faster, wanting to run, but knowing that would be foolish. He could easily trip and fall. He couldn't see where he was going, and even with his other senses, anything could happen. There could be a pit in front of him, or a wall, or....
He started to run.
The smell grew stronger, and more evocative. He was dreaming. He had to be. This was not....
"Dexter," said a familiar voice. A woman's. A little husky, a little sensuous, powerful and beautiful and.... He had a million words for it now, now that he thought with senses other than mere sight.
He had a name for it as well.
"Talia," he breathed.
There was a warm glow against his skin, and then he was touching her, feeling her soft skin and her long hair and the fire and the water of her touch and he was lost, lost again to madness, although this was a blissful, thrilling madness from which he would not turn away.
She kissed him, and he knew that he was dreaming and he did not care so long as he never woke up.
* * * * * * *
"Corwin, yes?" said the Brakiri. He did not rise. "Forgive me, but it has been a while."
"Since Golgotha," David said, stepping forward. He did not remember Kulomani very well. They had fought side by side as captains in the Dark Star fleet, and Kulomani had been Commander of Babylon 5 for a time, but beyond that....
He remembered seeing the Brakiri at Golgotha. Crippled, broken, his face a mask of pain. He had survived a massacre, but it had broken his body. Even now, after all these years, he looked pained, his body still shattered.
"Why are you here?" asked Vizhak bluntly. The Drazi had not changed much. Drazi seldom did. David had heard stories about the fighting at Zhabar. The things that had happened there....
"I wanted to speak to you both," he said. He stepped forward and took a seat. Zack remained in the doorway, hovering. It was just as well. He did not really belong here. "To be more precise, I wanted to ask your intentions for the future."
"The future?" Vizhak asked.
"I am sorry to interrupt," Kulomani said politely. "I am afraid I do not remember you well, and it is better to speak from complete understanding. Are we to assume you speak for your people in some official capacity?"
"Official? No, not really. Proxima was hit hard, and we didn't have time for elections or anything like that. The rest of us are scattered all over the place. There's no one really in charge."
"Then who do you speak for?"
He shrugged. "Myself, perhaps. It's possible some people on Proxima will listen to me, but for the most part, it's just me."
"Foolishness," Vizhak snorted.
"Really?" David replied. "Don't most things start with just a few people? How many of you were here on Kazomi Seven when the Alliance was begun? Not many."
"Speak on," Kulomani said. "I am listening."
"I mainly wanted to listen to you. What do you intend to do now? You lead the armies of your people. The Drazi and Brakiri are in alliance. So, what now?"
"Military secrets?" asked the Brakiri. "Is that what you want from us? We are in alliance, yes, but both our peoples are weakened, both our Governments.... at less than full effect. Both Brakir and Zhabar were devastated by the war. The Drazi elections, such as they are, have not been held properly since before the war. The Merchant-Lords have been all but annihilated, and lesser houses are seeking attention and power. Brakir is founded on trade, and there is precious little of that any more."
"But shouldn't there be?" asked David, sitting forward in his chair. "We're all becoming so isolated. The war's over, and the armies that were gathered to fight it have just.... scattered, returned to where they came from. Shouldn't we all be working together now?
"Shouldn't we be allied?"
"Failed last time," said Vizhak. "Will fail again."
"Are you so sure? Really?"
"The Alliance did fail, and more than fail," Kulomani continued. "And I know what you will say. You will blame the Vorlons, and the Inquisition, and the Narns for allying with the Shadows and the Drazi for trying to leave, and Sinoval for existing and the Centauri for their games. All of these things are true, but the Alliance collapsed because not enough people wanted it. It is perhaps a sad thing that there is so much.... what is the human word? Xenophobia? But there it is. Even we Brakiri, merchants and traders and diplomats.... even we had had enough of being ruled from afar."
"So," David said. "Was it the concept of the Alliance itself that was flawed, or the people running it? Couldn't it be done better?"
"That is a matter for great debate, and I doubt you would receive the answer you are looking for. Perhaps I should ask you a question, Corwin. You ask us if we have thought of creating a new Alliance? We ask you....
"Why should we?"
Corwin breathed out slowly. "We gathered together in the beginning for a common purpose. A short-term goal. The Alliance was originally created out of a need to survive the Drakh invasion. But higher and loftier goals formed. The Alliance was created for peace. All races working together as one."
"But races are not one. Brakiri are not Drazi. Minbari are not human."
"So we should just sit back and go our separate ways? We would have lost the war if we had done that. We would have lost to the Shadows, even."
"The war is over."
"This one is. What about the next one? And the one after that?" David paused, his mind racing. "I'm not saying we have to do everything the same way as last time. It failed last time, and for many different reasons, but what if....
"What if we do it again, but better? We need to trade. We need to help each other. We need to be kept informed of each other's problems, and each other's victories. Border disputes and settlement rights. How many races are homeless now? Refugees and bandits and dead worlds. The risk of some Vorlons remaining behind, or the Aliens returning.
"There's a lot to consider. The whole of the galaxy is in our hands, and we have to do things right this time. Maybe not an Alliance as such. Maybe not one army or one Government or one leader, but there must be something. A.... a...." His eyes lit up.
"A community," he said.
"We have to build a community."
Kulomani leaned back. He was thinking too. David could tell. "And where would we start?" the Brakiri asked.
"After here, I was planning on going to Centauri Prime. I've heard G'Kar and Emperor Mollari are both there, ill, but recovering. I was going to talk to them."
"Stupid," said Vizhak. David started, and looked at him. He had been silent for a long time. "Travel dangerous."
"So I should just give up?"
"No," said the Drazi flatly. "We invite them here."
* * * * * * *
She was radiance and fire and beauty and wonder and a million other things for which he had no words. His skin tingled where he touched her and when they kissed he saw things inside his mind.
She had tried to explain to him, a very long time ago, what it felt like when two telepaths made love, but he had never been much of a telepath and he had never truly reached that moment of perfect bliss and togetherness she had described.
Now he had.
He wept afterwards, and they talked. He could not remember most of it, but some of the words stuck with him later. He remembered everything in perfect detail in his dreams, but he always forgot again when he woke.
"I thought you were dead."
"Not dead, just changed. We've done it."
"Done what?"
"All of it. We've destroyed the network, freed the slaves. We have a home of our own. A place for telepaths, telepaths of all races."
And....
"I loved you so much. I dreamed about it for years and years, that thing coming out of the portal we created and Abby screaming for you and...."
"You will never dream about it again."
"I know.... I know."
And....
"They're gone too. All of them. They won't be coming back, either. We.... we think they're all dead. We've tried to use some of the gateways the Vorlons left behind to look into their universe and.... they don't work properly, but what we can see there.... It's beautiful. Everything's alive there, newborn, like Eden. I hope we'll be able to reactivate some of the gateways some day and go through to see it properly."
"I hope you don't."
"Why?"
"Some dreams should remain dreams."
And....
"There's no place for me there, is there? Not in this new world of yours. I'm not enough like you ."
"No. I'm sorry."
"No, I understand. I always did. You have your own world, and.... you have him. Are you.... are you.... together.... again?"
"Yes. He understands about Abby. He says he'd have done the same. I don't know if that makes it easier or harder."
"You deserve to be happy."
"I am. Do you remember something we asked each other once? I can't remember who asked the first question, but...."
"'Is it possible for a man to love two women equally?'"
"'If it is possible for one woman to love two men.'"
"Or it could have been the other way around."
And....
"I have to go."
"I know."
"You won't see me again."
"Oh, I think I will."
"How?"
"In my dreams."
And....
She left, of course, as she had to. He could not cry, and he could not see her, but he looked away anyway, and missed her tentative brush of a hand across her stomach as she disappeared, and the faint smile that flickered across her glowing face.
* * * * * * *
His hand was shaking as he dressed slowly. It took an age to fasten the buttons on his coat. He had to stop and rest frequently, his breath coming in hoarse, wheezing gasps. When he was done, he paused to look in the mirror, and was horrified by the face that looked back at him.
Londo Mollari was old. No, worse than that. He was dead. He should be dead. His death-dream had come and gone, and he still lived, surviving G'Kar's hands by some fluke, or whim of chance. He should have died. Both of them should have died. It had been dreamed.
He supposed it should be liberating, to know he had survived what was to have been his death, but it was not. If anything, it was terrifying. When he had known the circumstances of his death, he had felt almost immortal. Now.... now he was painfully aware of just how mortal he was.
His might have been the last. It had been a gift of his people, the dream bringing a vision of when they would die, but it was dying out. The seeresses were all gone now. The telepaths were few and growing fewer. Some, like his nephew Carn and Vir and others, had never known a death-dream. Nor had Jorah, for that matter.
He had received word of Carn's death in battle, and of Jorah's retirement. He could not blame him, and he understood. It seemed that all the young had died and only the old men remained, looking around with bleary eyes and wondering loudly where everyone had gone. Carn, Jorah's own Lyndisty.... a marriage had been discussed for those two once, a long time ago.
He finally turned away from the mirror, knowing what he had to do. He had put it off as long as he could, but it could wait no longer. He had one last visit to make to a friend, perhaps the last friend he had left.
He walked with trembling, faltering steps through the corridors of his palace, each corner and each stone filled with memories. The place where Malachi had died, where he had fought Cartagia, the corridor he had fled down following Refa's death, the window he had looked out of to see the Shadows and the Vorlons fighting in the sky, the place where he had run as a little boy, the room where he had known his first kiss....
So much to remember, and so much he would rather forget. Was that all that being old brought you? Memories and nothing else? Coldness and chill and so many regrets?
Malachi. He had made him a promise as he died. That promise, like so many others, had been unfulfilled.
He continued to walk, his head bowed, grim and silent, until he came to the garden where G'Kar sat.
The Narn had recovered from their struggle more quickly than he had, at least in matters physical. Narn were generally stronger and fitter than Centauri, and G'Kar was specifically stronger and fitter than Londo.
But his soul was clouded. G'Kar barely spoke to anyone, hardly ate. He looked almost wasted away, his eye hollow and haunted. The girl was with him, his apprentice or surrogate daughter or whatever she was. She was graceful, for a Narn, clad in a white-and-grey robe, bare-footed, bearing the scars of her injuries with an odd sense of pride.
Behind them stood the one-eyed Narn, G'Kar's bodyguard. Ta'Lon was hideously scarred himself, some of the scars very fresh. No one spoke of what had happened to him during the madness that had consumed this world, but Londo had heard rumours: of piles of bodies, of streets filled with blood, of Ta'Lon's hands twisted into claws, of the mad laughter in his voice. Even in the palace, servants and children spoke with fear of the one-eyed Narn giant.
Of course, G'Kar had only one eye as well.
The girl noticed him, and smiled once, briefly. Her face transformed when she did so, becoming something beautiful and child-like. She rose from the stone bench and touched Ta'Lon's arm. The two of them left, silently.
Londo stepped forward to his friend, to one of his oldest friends. The silence was oppressively complete, but he could not think of anything to say to break it.
Finally, he extended his hand. G'Kar looked up, and Londo saw in his one eye the mass of self-pity and self-loathing and disgust that filled the prophet.
Finally, G'Kar reached out and took Londo's hand.
Londo then sat down, and the two of them enjoyed the stillness of the garden in silence.
* * * * * * *
Everything was cold and grey. It was as if he had died again and was stuck in some waiting area between Heaven and Hell.
John Sheridan looked around. But if he was dead, then where was Delenn? He could not imagine that any God, just or unjust, would keep them apart after all this. After all they had endured and suffered, would they really be separated forever?
She had believed in a place where no shadows would fall. He did not know much about Minbari religious beliefs, or if he once had, he could not remember now, but he liked the idea of that. The trouble was, he did not believe there was any such place.
Some of them had wanted him to stay after the battle. Some of them had even wanted him to govern, exactly as Sinoval had intended. He had left, though. He had had enough of leading, enough of command, enough of war. Without Delenn at his side, what was the point of any of it?
She had always been stronger than him. She would have carried on with him gone. She would have done something worthwhile. She had spoken a little of the hospital she had founded. The subject had clearly pained her, but she had at least done something.
He could do nothing but wander.
Not surprisingly, it had all led back to Kazomi 7, where a lot of it had started. There was a shrine to her here, but it had been crowded with people, so he had headed off somewhere else, just like the blind man he had spoken to an hour or so before. It was hard to keep track of the passing of time here. Sometimes, things passed before him like an illusion. At other times, everything was clear and precise.
He remembered that last moment though. He would never forget that. The light, blinding and blazing and dazzling, the light that had been ready to take him apart. Her pushing him away....
And then after that. Him walking away, daring the Vorlon to kill him, wanting the Vorlon to kill him. The Vorlons worshipped death, he had been told. For a while, so had he.
Except that there was no death for him. He had died once, and been brought back, and now it seemed as if he would live forever.
He carried on walking, then stopped and looked around. He had an irrational feeling that someone was following him. There was no one there, not anywhere, and so he continued. He was not entirely sure where he was going. He had wanted to be away from people, and there were so many of them around the shrine that he had just wanted to be.... elsewhere.
The cemetery had seemed vast from the edge, but then it had been hidden by mist and dark clouds and the smell of the dead. Once inside it, it was small, especially given the number of people buried here.
And not just people, but their dreams and hopes and the tears of their loved ones as well. So much to be held in so small a place.
He stopped again. He was almost at the edge of the area now, on the very outskirts of the city. There was little ahead of him but open ground, and roads and....
And emptiness. Nothing there for miles and miles. He looked up, and saw space above him. Nothing there either.
He moved forward, and realised he had crossed the border of the cemetery. There had been no marker, no boundary as such, but he had known. There had been a feeling.
He stopped, paused, and looked back. He took a single step back into the cemetery, once again crossing that invisible border.
He sighed.
"I know you are there. Come out and stop hiding."
There was a shimmering, and then he appeared, clad in black and silver and red and gold. He was no more substantial than a ghost, and as transparent as one, yet when John looked at him, he thought he saw something else inside him - not cold, dank soil and the mist of the grave, but the sight and smell of a new world entire, filled with life, and purpose, and a future.
So engrossed was he in this image, that he almost missed the first words.
"Ah, Sheridan," said Sinoval. "You always did know me too well."