Volume 4:  A Future, Born in Pain Part I:  The Fiery Trial Through Which we Pass


The Fiery Trial Through Which we Pass



Chapter 1


"IF we cannot fight together, then we will surely die apart.  Our enemies have no regard for historical hatreds, for ancient enmities, for feuds born of bloodshed and misunderstanding.  To those who seek to destroy all that we are, we are all one and the same: races to be destroyed.
      "If our enemies see us as one, then why can we not see ourselves so?"
Excerpt from Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar's Speech of Unity.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

There is a world, far and distant, out on the Rim.  It has been a dead world for so long.
      A thousand years ago a great and terrible war was brought to this world.  The final battle lasted for many days, but ultimately an evil was driven from it, and those who had pursued the war returned to their homes, content to rest, to bury their dead, to raise their children, to tell stories.
      And to forget.  Forget, they did, relegating the war to just another legend, to tales of heroes and courage, to a time long ago, a time that held no relevance for the present.
      It is the curse of mortal man to forget.  Mortal beings cannot learn from their mistakes, for they are doomed to keep forgetting them.
      Time has passed.  Generations have come and gone.  And the Darkness has returned once more.
      Z'ha'dum, once a dead world, now teems with life again.  The ancient race who for a thousand years hid in secret, have come back to their ancestral home, to their temples and cities and wonders of old.  They have come back, and they are ready to go to war once more.
      This time, they know they will not lose.  This time, they will be careful.  This time, they will be ready.
      The Shadows may be long-lived.  They may be an ancient race, older by far than many can comprehend.  They may possess wonders far in advance of the younger races.
      But for all that, the Shadows are still mortal.
      And it is the doom of mortals to forget.
      A ship comes to Z'ha'dum.  They are surprised, but eager.  This is not what they have planned for, admittedly, but it is something they have wanted.  They let it come.  They are pleased.
      They have forgotten so much, particularly how to hear the one who lives below.  The one who is not mortal, and who does not forget.  He has begun to speak at last, but no one can hear him.  There will be many deaths before anyone can truly hear him.
      A ship comes.  See.  It is here....

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

She still does not entirely know why she has come.  As she looks at the dead, crimson world beneath her, Delenn of Mir contemplates the last time any of her people were here.  The climax of the last Great War against the Shadows.  Valen had led his mighty fleet here, and brought to an end many years of war.
      As she looks at it from this perspective, Delenn of Mir is very much afraid that there are many years of war still to come.  Unless she can end it here.
      And if this war is won, as was the last, what then?  A wait of another thousand years before the killing starts once more?  A peace more terrible than any war?
      She has been sent here by a race she once thought to be her allies.  She does not understand the reason for this, but that does not matter.  She has sent all the information she has to the one who might be able to understand.
      She is thinking about Sinoval now.  She hopes he received her message.  It would give him some satisfaction to know he was right.  He would take great pleasure in being able to say 'I told you so'.
      But he would never get the chance, at least not to her.
      John can walk now.  He can move, and touch, and live....  Cured both of the injuries sustained in the Battle of the Third Line and of Deathwalker's terminal virus, he can live once more.  The United Alliance has its general, one far more able to pursue this war than Delenn herself.
      But she will be able to do one last service before the end.
      She brings the shuttle into orbit, looking at the planet below her.  She has seen it before only in recordings, in dreams, in visions sent by the Vorlons.  She has never been here before.  It looks dead, abandoned, still scarred by the ravages of war and time.
      She prepares the message she is to send.  This is Delenn of Mir, leader of the United Alliance of Kazomi Seven.  I come here in response to an invitation by David Sheridan.  Please provide directions to a suitable position on the surface.
      This done, she sits back, ensuring it will broadcast itself on a repeating cycle.  She thinks back to the time she had been given the 'invitation', and to the aftermath.  She had turned Ambassador Sheridan down, knowing the invitation to be a trap.  Now.... she was here anyway.
      She should have told John about his father.  She should have told him.  Just one more legacy of regret to lay upon all the countless others heaped up over her lifetime.
      --- We read your message, Delenn, --- says a voice over the audio-only channel.  She recognises it immediately, and sits bolt upright.  Ambassador Sheridan.  John's father.  --- I will admit to being surprised, but questions can wait.  I am transferring the co-ordinates of a landing site just outside the capital city.  You will need suitable breathing equipment when you are on the surface, but we will be able to provide that if necessary.  The other external conditions may be.... uncomfortable for you, but I am sure you will be able to cope.  Living conditions inside the city are more than adequate, I assure you. ---
      "I have received your co-ordinates," she replies.  "I am setting course now."
      --- Don't worry, Delenn.  We won't let you get lost on the way. ---
      Her systems begin to beep at her.  She feels a slight chill.
      Outside her shuttle, three Shadow ships shimmer into view.  She hears their loud screams in her mind.
      They will not let her get lost.  Not at all.
      Delenn of Mir prepares herself to set foot on Z'ha'dum.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

They had been incredibly vocal in their protests.  Virini, the Minister for the Court, had claimed that he had not been given enough time to organise the whole affair, what with the need for personal servants, aides, valets, bodyguards, an alteration to the itinerary, pacifying those who would have to postpone their appointments....
      Durano, Minister for the Interior, gave calm, rational reasons for the need for the Republic to have its focal figure at home during this time of crisis.
      Marrago, Minister for Defence and Lord-General of the Republic's Armies, spoke of the need for the Republic to be seen to be in a position of strength.  The Emperor going personally to meet an alien alliance would surely be seen as a sign of weakness.
      Of all of them, only Timov, Minister for Resource Procurement and the Emperor's First Consort, had given him anything like support.
      She had reminded him to wrap up tight, not to eat any alien food, and to get enough sleep.
      When Londo Mollari, esteemed Emperor of the mighty and glorious Centauri Republic, set his mind on a course, it took a great deal of effort to dissuade him from it.
      Still, he could see all their points.  The Imperial Barge should by all rights have been accompanied by at least three warships, and there should have been numerous advisors and bodyguards.  As it was, the Republic could spare only one warship, the Valerius, under the command of the Emperor's nephew, Carn Mollari.  The Narns might have been driven from the homeworld with remarkably little effort, but that did not mean the danger was over.  One warship was all that could be spared.
      And as for bodyguards, the Imperial Guard was needed to maintain order on the homeworld.  The Shadow Criers had subsided, but not entirely disappeared.  Londo had his personal cadre of one hundred guardsmen, and, most important of all, he had Lennier.  He would be fine.
      He was standing on the observation deck of the Imperial Barge, looking out at the multi-coloured delirium of hyperspace.  It was amazingly similar to the flashes at the back of his eyelids whenever he was hung over, a state he had mercifully been free of for some time now.
      "Are you there, Lennier?" he called out hesitantly.  There was a movement.
      "I am here," said a soft voice.  Londo was constantly surprised by the Minbari's habit of concealment.  He seemed to melt into the shadows even in places where they were no shadows to melt into.  With this knack, and with his frequent silences, it was easy to forget he was about.
      That made him the perfect bodyguard of course, but a difficult person to talk to.
      It had been Kazomi 7.  Something had happened there to turn the gentle keela poet into someone who.... scared most people, even Londo sometimes.  He trusted Lennier as he trusted very few others, but still.... few others understood why the most powerful man in the Centauri Republic kept a Minbari around.
      Lennier had recently taken to not wearing his sunburst badge, the insignia that marked him out as one of G'Kar's Rangers.  He had offered no explanation for this omission.
      And now they were both going back to Kazomi 7.  It had been over a year and a half since either of them had been there, and it must have changed greatly from the barren, devastated world it had been then.  A triumph of hope over despair, it had been called.
      It was all G'Kar's fault, of course.  He wanted unity.  He wanted all the races united to oppose the Shadows.  He had been doing a remarkably good job of it as well.  If he could get the Centauri to side with the Alliance.... to go to war with a terrifying Enemy....
      To throw away Centauri lives in a cause not their own, to make an enemy who would no doubt be angry and vengeful, to commit themselves to a war with no returning.
      Londo had turned down Mr. Morden's offer of a permanent alliance with the Vorlons for that very reason.  Morden's subsequent disappearance (little change there, with him) had not altered his opinion.  The Centauri would remain neutral as far as possible.
      "I was thinking about something," he said softly.  "Tell me.... have you heard any.... rumours about our victory in the recent battle?"  The Narns had assaulted Centauri Prime itself, and been beaten back.  Lord-General Marrago had foreseen heavy casualties, but there had been remarkably few.
      "What sort of rumours?"
      "I don't know....  Either the Narns were grossly underprepared for their attack, still believing us to be weak and helpless.... or we had help from somewhere."
      "Centauri Prime had been in a state of chaos for over a year," Lennier replied, after a thoughtful hesitation.  "Perhaps they had not heard how much things had changed."
      "Perhaps....  Perhaps they did underestimate us.  Or maybe we were helped.  I have heard.... rumours that another force intervened.  Who, or what, or why, I do not know, and I do not even know if there is any truth in this.  Was Mr. Morden trying to force his offer of alliance onto us?  Were these.... Shadows playing some game of their own, hoping to push us into a deal with them?"
      "I will listen," Lennier said simply.  "If I hear anything, I will tell you."
      "Thank you," said the Emperor softly.
      He wished there was someone here he could talk to.... really talk to.  Marrago was on Centauri Prime of course, plotting the move to retake the Gorash system.  Timov was busily terrifying people in her guise as Minister for Resource Procurement.  G'Kar had slipped away from the homeworld in the same mysterious way he had slipped in.  Delenn would be at Kazomi 7.  Carn was captaining the Valerius.
      Ah, how he wished for someone to talk to.  Someone to see Londo Mollari the man, not the second Emperor Mollari, not the man who would lead the Republic into its dying days.
      Londo remembered Cartagia's final prophecy, his final, black joke.  He had sworn to deny Cartagia that last laugh.  He remembered the cause Malachi had died for, and his own oath to uphold it.  He remembered Lord Jarno going to his death.
      Then he remembered sitting in that damned uncomfortable chair, and he decided that he was happy here for the moment.  Kazomi 7 was some hours away, and when he arrived there he would have to sit through all the speeches, all the waffle, all the politicking.  Then he would have to leave and return to Centauri Prime for more of the same.
      He spent the remaining five hours until his arrival at Kazomi 7 doing precisely nothing whatsoever.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

"So why do they call him Jinxo, then?"
      The principle reason for frequenting any pub, Dexter Smith had reasoned, was not the drinks they served, nor the politeness of the landlord, nor the length of the barmaids' skirts, nor the cost of the drinks, nor even the propensity for brawls on a Friday night.
      No, it was the regulars.  People who came in day after day, night in, night out.  Not to drink as such, but just to be there, to enjoy the atmosphere, to talk all night about the things they had done all day, to swap outrageous stories and gossip and news.
      It had been the regular customers that had drawn Smith into the first real pub he had visited, back when he was nowhere near old enough to be able to buy drinks.
      Sadly, while Bo's tavern had a great many.... well, many.... well, some.... features to recommend it, the regulars were not among them.  Smith was gloomily realising that he was Bo's regular, because he'd been coming here three or four nights a week for about a month.
      Oh, there were a few others.  There was Mack, an old friend of Bo's from his time in Earthforce.  Eduardo Delvientos and his brother, both dockers based at the spaceport in Sector 305.  A small-scale businessman called Devereaux.  Then there was Jinxo.  No one seemed to know his real name.  No one knew where he lived or what he did.  He was just always there, at least he'd been there every time Smith had been.  Most of the time he wasn't even drinking anything, just sitting as close to the fire as he could.
      "A funny story," Bo said, polishing some glasses.  Well, by polishing, what he was actually doing was evenly distributing the dirt, but it gave him something to do and made him look busy.
      Smith said nothing, and waited for Bo to continue.  "He used to be a construction worker.  Fairly big, large-scale stuff.  A pretty good one, too.... by all accounts.  He lived on Orion for a good few years, doing minor repair work and such.  Got married there, back in.... ooh, fifty-one, fifty-two, something like that.  She got pregnant.
      "I gather things were looking up at one point.  The Government was trying to recruit skilled construction workers for some big job.  Some space station or something."
      "Babylon Four," Smith said softly.
      Bo appeared not to have heard him.  "So, Jinxo was one of the first in line for a job.  He went off for some survey reports or something.  I think he hung around on the Babylon for a while.... meeting pretty high-class people, you know.
      "And then.... well.... the Minbari came to Orion, completely trashed the place.  Jinxo was still on the Babylon when it came back to try and defend Orion, and he was one of the first guys on the ground.  He got to his apartment.... and the whole building had been wrecked.  His wife was dead, but the doctors managed to save the baby.... something like that, anyway.  Maybe his wife lived for a few more days.... or something.
      "Well, it turned out Jinxo's insurance didn't cover anything like the cost of keeping the baby in hospital, and it weren't like that were the only kid in need of treatment after Orion.  His apartment weren't worth nothing any more, he wasn't going to get paid by the Government for construction work they couldn't afford, and his savings went.... pretty fast.
      "So, the hospital were making threatening noises, so he took all the cash he had and went down to the Tron.  He tried to borrow money off Mr. Trace, but.... well, he couldn't afford to lend him any.  I'm sure he would have, if he could.  He's a real fine man, as you know."
      "Yeah," muttered Smith.  "A real humanitarian."
      "But.... I hear there are certain people at the Tron who.... go in for a bit of illegal gambling.  Cards and stuff.... you get my meaning.  They don't do that any more, of course.  Mr. Trace found out about it, and put a stop to it all.
      "But well....  Jinxo put the lot on one hand.  He reckoned he'd got the perfect hand.... but one of the others beat him.  He lost the lot.... ended up owing a lot of people a lot of money.  Mr. Trace managed to put it right as much as possible, but well....  The hospital had to turn off the baby's machine, you see.  They couldn't afford to keep it going, not with all those people starving in the streets that winter, and with all the food riots and prison riots and everything....
      "So he just moved down here.  Gave his name as Jinxo.... and just.... I dunno, just gave up on life, I suppose.  A pity."
      "Not so much of a funny story then, really," Smith said to himself.  That was Sector Three-o-one, after all.  Everyone here would have a similar story, he bet.  A tale of lost loves and broken dreams, a dark, desolate road of forsaken happiness that ended here - in the Pit.
      Only one type of person had a good life in the Pit, and that was Mr. Trace and his toadies, people who made a profit out of betraying and feeding off their fellows.  Trace had his flunkies; the corrupt, the weak, the morally vacant.... and as long as he was doing fine, then nothing else mattered.
      Smith began to feel a greater sense of importance.  Trace had to be shut down, or at least shown what he was doing to these people here.  Somebody had to do that, and it might as well be him.  He might not be able to save the galaxy, but he could at least fight a battle on a smaller scale.
      He was just coming to this conclusion when he felt strong hands grab the back of his shirt and drag him from his seat.  He was hurled against the far wall, striking it with a force that jarred him.  He tried to turn and look at his assailant, blinking away the pain.
      "I told you last time," snarled an angry voice.  "That's my seat.  You been letting other people sit in my chair, Bo?"
      Bo was cowering behind the bar.  "N-No....  Mr. Drake, sir.  I....  It was just....  I...."
      "Ah, shut up.  Get down to the cellar, or the kitchen or somethin'.  That way you can tell the truth to the Security lot when you say you didn't see nothing.  No.... better yet, tell them this guy here started it, and I were just defendin' myself."
      "S.... started what, Nelson?  What are you going to do?"
      The thick, heavy-set man reached into his jacket and pulled out a long, wickedly-sharp knife.  "This guy here has been causing problems for Mr. Trace.  He's been troubling our overworked security forces, and he just doesn't get the three-o-one ethos here.  You work with Mr. Trace, and everything's fine.  You annoy Mr. Trace.... and things get a very long way from fine."
      Smith shook his head and looked up.  Nelson Drake was advancing on him.
      "We got to set an example for the others in three-o-one, you see," he was saying.  "We all got to work together, and that means knowing who's boss.  Bad luck for you, mate.... you won't get to learn from your mistake."

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

The Babylon headed for Z'ha'dum.
      On the bridge sat its captain, the legendary John Sheridan, the Starkiller.  He was silent, waiting, thinking about a dead world, a red world, a barren and twisted world at the Rim of known space.
      A world where the one person he loved most in all the galaxy could be found.
      His second, Commander Corwin, was watching him carefully.  He was still finding it hard to credit that the Captain was able to walk and move again.  He had been assured that the injuries he had received at Epsilon 3 had been permanent.  The nature and extent of the spinal damage, to say nothing of the terminal virus he had been infected with two years ago....
      And yet here he was.  Alive.  Fit.  Healthy.
      A miracle.  Or perhaps a sign of the aid they could all be given by their new Vorlon allies.
      So why was he so concerned?  Something just felt wrong.  Very wrong in all this.
      It was not that the Captain was here, back on this ship again.  It had been years since Sheridan had commanded the Babylon.  He had been in charge of Bester's Parmenion for a year and a half, until its destruction at the Battle of the Third Line, the same battle that had almost cost the Captain his life.  The Babylon had been.... changed in that time, modified by the Resistance Government with technology provided by their Shadow allies.  Corwin had spent weeks on the ship after it had been retaken, checking out the extent of the upgrades.  He had done what he could, but the ship still felt wrong, slightly out of synch with what he remembered.
      Or maybe it was he who had changed.  He had commanded the Babylon in those long months when the Captain had lain in his hospital bed, dying one day at a time.  The ship had felt so wrong without the Captain, but now that he was back it felt even worse.
      Corwin remembered the meeting of the United Alliance Council he had been called to a few days ago.  He had been on this ship, supervising the repair of the damage suffered during their most recent skirmish with the Shadows.  He had been working hard, too hard, hoping to forget about Mary that way.
      He had not been surprised by the invitation.  He was not a member of the Alliance Council, but he had been present at a number of their meetings in the last few months.  As military advisor or something.  He had always been uncomfortable there, among alien politicians and economists and wizards.
      His first reaction had been to wonder where Delenn was.  She had always been present at such meetings.  His second was to notice that the Captain was there.  Standing.
      "Captain!" he had cried.  "But....  What...?"
      "It's good to see you too, David," he had replied with a broad smile.  The two men, friends for over a decade, had embraced, and Corwin had just looked at his commander, dumbfounded.
      "What happened?"
      "The Vorlons," had come the simple reply.  "God knows what type of tech they've got at their disposal, but they used it to heal everything.  I'm fine.  Perfectly fine.  I feel better than I have in years."
      "That's great!  That's....  Does Delenn know?"  There had been a chill pause.  "What?"
      "She's not here.  They've got her.  The Shadows."
      "How?  What happened?"
      "We don't know.... not entirely.  We think one of the aides here in the Council was infected by one of those.... Keepers.  One of Delenn's servants is missing, as well as her private shuttle.  We think they managed to capture her, or knock her out.... or something.  They've taken her to Z'ha'dum."
      "How are you so sure?"
      "We know."
      "A Keeper, but...."  Corwin had looked around for the technomage, Vejar.  He possessed strange abilities, magic worked through science, or science that had the appearance of magic.... something like that.  He had been given the task of finding all those tainted by the Shadow symbiont.
      He had not been at the table.  He was nowhere in sight.
      "What are we going to do?"
      Corwin had suddenly become aware of a bright and blinding light behind the Captain.  Blinking and shielding his eyes with his hand, he had realised what it was.  A Vorlon.  The Vorlon Ambassador, in fact.  Ulkesh Naranek.
      "We are going to Z'ha'dum," the Captain had replied.  "We're going to find her.... and kill everything else we find there."
      There had been an argument then.  One of the Drazi on the Council had muttered something about not being able to spare any ships from the fleet for a futile attack on Z'ha'dum.  Delenn would have known that.
      "It doesn't matter," the Captain had replied.  "We'll just take the Babylon.  It's all we'll need."
      He had been very sure.
      Looking back on it, nothing about that conversation had seemed right to Corwin.  Not a single thing.  The Vorlons creeped him out, at least this one did.  Where had Vejar been?
      There was a movement behind him, and he turned.  It was Lyta.  She took a step forward, and then stopped as if paralysed.  She was looking directly at the Captain.
      The Vorlons had insisted she come along.  They had ordered it, in so many words.
      Corwin looked at her, and at the Captain.  Neither of them was moving.  Neither of them even seemed to be breathing.
      And just for a moment, in what might have been a trick of the light, he was sure he saw Lyta's eyes blaze gold.  But then the light faded, and she was just herself again.
      And the Babylon continued towards Z'ha'dum.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

The door closed behind her, and Delenn looked at the man in front of her.  It was strange, but Ambassador Sheridan seemed every bit as at home here, in this barren construct of stone and rock, as he had in the Council rooms of Kazomi 7.  She imagined he had a knack of fitting in wherever he went.
      "You may remove your breathing equipment now," he said politely.  "The atmosphere in here is perfectly suitable for you.  We have had Minbari here before.  Of course your unique biology may cause some difficulties, but I doubt they will be overly serious."
      Delenn unclipped her respirator mask and handed it over to him.  She took a few breaths, and then nodded.  The air was bearable.  The gravity felt a little off, but then she had been used to Kazomi 7 for the last few years.
      The building was sparse, and fairly empty.  Everything seemed to be made of stone, as if the place had been hacked out of the raw bones of the planet itself.  Everything was red, or brown.  It was hot.
      "You made your way here easily enough, then?" Sheridan said, making small talk.
      "Your directions were most precise," she said.  Then, after a pause, "Thank you."
      "Do you have any baggage?  I will have everything taken to your quarters."
      "No," she replied formally.  "I am as you see me."
      "I doubt that," he replied, his voice icy.  "If you will follow me, I will introduce you to others who wish to meet you again.  It has been a while, for most of them."
      "Are you in charge here, then?" she said, following him as he guided her through the corridors.  Everything seemed the same; dark, red and hot.
      "This is a private sector of the capital city, built especially for us.  The city has a name, by the way, but not even I can pronounce it.  Far too many letters.  I am.... the highest ranked of those of us here at the moment.  The true inhabitants of this city prefer to live in the lower levels, and rarely come up this high.  I apologise if the accommodation seems a little.... spartan to you.  It was designed by a member of your race, and he had certain.... strict attitudes to what was necessary for life.  I have done what I can to make them more habitable, but I am rarely here these days."
      "None of my race has served the Shadows," she replied tersely.  "None of us ever would."
      "Oh?" he said, with a raised eyebrow.  "Have you forgotten your history?  Parlonn lived hereabouts for some years.  I can show you the place where he met Marrain and convinced him to join with the.... ah, the Shadows.  There's a shrine at the place where Parlonn was murdered down here somewhere.  It's quite a way underground, and I don't like travelling there too often.  It does get a little claustrophobic at times."
      "Parlonn.... chose his own path."
      "I never said he did not.  It is refreshing, actually.... to see that your race can be just as petty as ours.  It completely dispels that whole aura of superiority you like to build up around yourselves.  Why was it Parlonn changed sides again?  Jealousy?  Envy?"
      "Neither," she whispered.  "He heard your lies and chose to believe them.  It was Marrain who betrayed Valen out of jealousy."
      "Ah yes.  I had the two confused.  Do forgive me."  He came to a door and stopped.  "This is a.... I don't know if Minbari have a word for it.  A living-room would be the English phrase.  A place to sit and meet and discuss things that are not business.  No vidscreen or television, fortunately.  You can't get ISN all the way out here, which is a shame, but I can't say I miss any of the rest of it."
      He pushed the door open and gestured to her to go inside.  There were two people there.  One of them was a human woman, sitting on a comfortable-looking chair.  The other was a tall figure dressed in a black tunic, with the hood pulled up over his head.  His back was to her.
      "You know Miss Susan Ivanova, of course," Sheridan said.  "It has been a while, I accept.  And.... you will also know our other companion, although that has been even longer."
      "Why did you come here, beloved?" said a harsh voice, one she recognised all too well despite the many years since she had last heard it.
      She gasped as he turned round and pushed back his hood.  It was Neroon.
      "A question I would like answered," Sheridan replied.  He walked over to a table.  "Do you want some tea, or do you not drink it?  I know Neroon does not, but then you are partially human.  I do hope you've learned something of ours."
      "I...."  She could not help but look at Neroon.  It had been many years since they had parted, and they had not met since.  He had come to her one night, and told her about someone he had met.  G'Kar, the Narn prophet who had spoken of the need for the Rangers, and of an alliance to fight the Enemy.  Neroon had chosen to believe that a Narn could carry the burden better than a Minbari, and so he had left.
      He had asked Delenn to go with him, but she had refused, knowing that she had her duties on the Grey Council.
      Two years ago she had received a message from Neroon's friend Ta'Lon, telling her that he had died, trapped by the Shadows and surely killed.
      "You have changed, beloved," he said.  Her hands went instinctively to her hair.  The last time he had seen her, she had been fully Minbari.  He smiled, in the same way he had done before, when they had both been much younger.  "I like it."
      "Milk?" asked Sheridan.  "Sugar?  No, I guess not.  So.... why have you come?"
      "You invited me."
      "So I did.  And you turned me down.  As I recall, you also exiled me from Kazomi Seven and threatened to go to war with my allies.  You have gone to war with my allies."
      "Your allies attacked ships loyal to the Alliance."
      He shrugged.  "We offered you peace.  We offered you neutrality.  We offered you treaties, and trade, and a beneficial relationship.  We offered to make you strong.  You turned us down and preferred to ally with our enemies, who have promised you none of those things.  You have, after all, taken on a Vorlon Ambassador to your.... little Alliance, have you not?"
      "We have."
      "Ah."  He shook his head sadly.  "You poor fools.  You really have no idea."
      "Rather them than you."
      "You think?" he chuckled, as if that was a genuinely funny remark.  "Well, I guess you do.  The perils of a Minbari religious caste upbringing.  They get to you early.  The warrior caste are far more.... flexible.  Apart from Sinoval, of course, but even he....  He serves our aims in a way, although he probably doesn't realise it.  But the rest of the warrior caste - Sonovar, Kalain.... all of them.  Easy to manipulate."  He smiled sadly.  "I take some small satisfaction from that."
      Delenn looked at Neroon.  He said nothing.  He was still looking at her.
      "So," continued Sheridan.  "Why did you come here?"
      "To hear the wisdom you promised me at Kazomi Seven."
      "I heard it said that Minbari do not lie.  More propaganda, all part of that aura of superiority again.  You know, Delenn, I have met and worked with countless races during my career.  Brakiri, Drazi, Narn, Centauri, Sh'lassan, Abbai.... oh.... so many more.  All those different cultures, festivals, histories.  I put up with Narn scheming, Centauri decadence, Drazi tempers....
      "And in all that time, the Minbari are the only people I have ever really disliked.
      "One last time, why did you come here?"
      "To kill you all," whispered another voice.  Delenn looked down to see Ivanova rising to her feet.  "She's come to kill you all.... and she'll manage it as well."  Ivanova chuckled slightly.  "We're all going to die."
      Sheridan sipped at his tea.  "Yes," he said.  "Everything does.  Sooner or later.  I'll show you to your quarters, Delenn.  I have no doubt someone will be coming up to meet with you soon."

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

In recent years Dexter Smith had been involved in quite a lot of combat.  That, of course, had been ship-to-ship, large-scale battles, or perhaps the more personal fighting that occurred when one ship or the other was being boarded.
      It had been a long time since his last no-holds-barred, bar-room brawl or fight for his life.  But there had been a time, before he had joined Earthforce, when there had been no one able to take him on.  Not because he was stronger, or faster, or better armed.... but because in Sector 301, he fought meaner and dirtier than anyone else around.
      Swivelling on the floor, he lashed out with his foot, catching Drake's knee and knocking it aside.  Drake staggered, but managed to remain on his feet, and Smith cursed his lack of practice.  In the old days he'd been able to break a man's knee with that manoeuvre, and that would pretty much end any fight.
      As it was, he had time to get to his feet and shake the cobwebs from his head.  His blood was roaring now, but his thoughts were icy calm.  It was as though his soul had entered a tranquil void, where what happened to his body did not affect it.
      Drake moved forward, more cautiously this time.  He was good at this.  He did not just want to beat Smith but to kill him, and he was more than capable of keeping his anger in check if it meant he could manage that.
      He slashed out in an exploratory motion, and Smith dodged back.  Testing his reach, Drake attacked again, and once more Smith avoided the blow.  There was a table here, just behind him.  He could feel it as he moved back.  Another two steps.... that was all.
      His opponent could clearly see it as well, and charged.  Smith sidestepped, but Drake had been expecting that, and swivelled on the balls of his feet, slashing out with the knife.  It tore through Smith's shirt, and there was a sharp pain across his ribs.
      In his void Smith did not feel the pain, but he knew it was there.  He dropped down a little and let Drake rise above him.  Swiftly striking out, he rained two quick punches on Drake's side, and heard his attacker grunt.  He rolled aside and leapt to his feet.
      Drake followed up on him at considerable speed, surprising given his size.  Smith grabbed behind him, and felt a chair there.  In one swift motion he spun it around, and felt it connect with Drake's arm.
      Drake fell back, still silent.  He was not swearing or blustering.  He was perfectly calm and cold and silent.  He stepped back slowly, shifting his weight, ready for Smith to make the next move.  Smith dropped the chair and began to consider his options.  In the void time seemed to move differently.  He became aware of the flurry of emotions in Drake's mind, kept at bay by an iron wall of discipline and self-denial.
      Acting on what almost seemed like instinct, Smith tweaked the mass of anger and hatred and fear slightly, and the wall fell apart.
      Roaring insanely, Drake charged forward, brandishing the dagger high in the air.  Smith easily sidestepped the attack, spun around, and delivered a hard kick to the back of his opponent's knee.  Drake went down, stumbling, but managed to roll aside from the stamp that was aimed at the small of his back.
      Smith came down hard on Drake's wrist, and with a cry the knife slipped from his fingers.  Just as the prone man tried to rise, Smith brought his foot down on his neck.
      "Did Trace order this?" he asked, his void of tranquillity shattering.  "Or was it a personal thing?"
      Drake chuckled.  "You're a dead man," he hissed.  "A very very dead man.  Mr. Trace owns this sector, and anyone who tries fighting him.... well, that depends on his mood.  Sometimes they get one chance.  Sometimes they don't.  Guess which group you're in."
      "I'm still alive, aren't I?  You failed to get rid of me.  I don't think Mr. Trace will be all that happy about that."
      "I haven't failed yet."
      Drake suddenly grabbed Smith's foot and pushed him backwards.  Smith staggered, and watched Drake lunge for the discarded dagger.  With his left hand Drake began to grip the hilt carefully.  Smith darted forward and brought his foot down hard at the top of Drake's spine.
      There was a sickening sound, and he knew what had happened almost instantly.  He could somehow.... feel the life leaching from Drake's body.
      Turning the man over, his suspicions were confirmed.  The blade of the knife was stuck deep into his neck.
      Smith turned to look at Bo, still shaking behind the bar.  "G.... get out of here," Bo breathed.  "Get out of the sector.  Security will be after you."
      Smith nodded, his void of calm collapsed.  Wincing at the sudden pain from the slash along his ribs, he fled from the bar.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Ambassador G'Kael watched the meeting of the United Alliance Council with a mixture of amusement and terror.  He was only now beginning to recognise just how much the whole Alliance rested on a small handful of figures, and with only three of them here, it seemed it was ready to tear itself apart.
      He had been unsure how to regard this appointment when the Kha'Ri had broached it to him a few months ago.  The Alliance had been growing in power and prestige for some time, and Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar was rumoured to have given it his full support.  Some representation was needed, but the Kha'Ri had been in fierce debate as to just what sort of representation.  The war with the Centauri had been occupying most of their attention, and they did not want to spare any of their number from the First Circle.  On the other hand, a minor diplomat from the Third Circle or below could easily be perceived as an insult.
      It had been a difficult balancing act, but eventually G'Kael had been chosen, a decision that had surprised many, especially himself.  Councillor Na'Toth had later told him that she had personally sponsored him for the position, and that she had every confidence in him.  What she had not told him was that the recommendation had come from a somewhat higher source - the famed Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar himself.
      Now with Na'Toth all but deposed from her position of influence in the Kha'Ri and currently residing on Kazomi 7 itself, G'Kael had been expecting to be recalled to Narn, or at least to have Na'Toth made Ambassador here.  Neither had happened, and in fact there had been no word from Narn other than the regular, run-of-the-mill stuff.  The Kha'Ri seemed too set on the war.
      G'Kael had once, more out of curiosity than anything else, gone to the G'Khorazhar Shrine, to hear a speech by Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar.  He remembered one thing the great preacher had said.
      "This is the doom of mortal beings.... that we shall not see the beast until our heads are between its jaws."
      G'Kael was beginning to believe no one back home could see the true beast, and would not until it decided to close its mouth.
      But then, as he looked around a Council chamber bereft of the Blessed Delenn, of the Starkiller Sheridan, of the Technomage Vejar and of the Vorlon Ambassador, he was wondering if the Alliance Council could see the beast either.
      The big topic of discussion was the refusal of the Abbai to join the Alliance formally.  Negotiations, treaty pacts, diplomatic dinners and the like had been going on for some time, until the Abbai had suddenly and abruptly pulled out.  Their polite letter did not give a reason, but everyone knew what it was.
      "They are cowards!" cried Taan Churok, the Drazi former bartender and Minister for Defence.  "Weak-willed cowards.  We should let the Shadows take them!"
      G'Kael did not see it quite that way.  He had not seen these 'Shadows' in person, but he had seen recordings made of the Battle of the Great Machine, or the Third Line as some people were calling it.  If these Shadows were as terrifying in real life as they looked in hologram, then he did not blame anyone for not wanting to fight them.
      Thus far their ships had not turned towards Narn, despite their Ambassador's promise in this very room.  If that did happen, what would the Kha'Ri do?  He did not know, and that troubled him.  They might decide to take war fully to the Shadows, but then they might prefer to leave the Alliance to its fate.  The Narn Régime was not as yet a member of the Alliance, and it was uncertain if it ever would be.  For the moment the two governments saw themselves as potentially useful allies, potentially dangerous enemies, and people it would be useful to keep an eye on.
      "They are afraid," replied the more pragmatic Lethke.  The Brakiri was Minister for the Economy, but he often seemed to take on the duty of defusing dangerous confrontations between the hot-headed Drazi and some of the others.  Delenn could of course do that with ease, but she was not here.  "We cannot blame them for their fears.  They wish to remain neutral."
      Delenn had always seemed convinced that there could be no neutrality in this war, whatever people sought.  G'Kael desperately hoped she was wrong.
      "They are cowards," affirmed Vizhak, Taan Churok's fellow Drazi on the Council.  "But they are insignificant in the larger scheme of things.  The raids continue.  Have all our ships been given telepaths?"
      G'Kael stiffened in his chair, and made a point of listening to this intently.  For some reason telepaths were a serious threat to the Shadows, and Delenn wanted every ship in the Alliance fleet to have at least one telepath aboard.  This was difficult to manage, at best.  Narns had no telepaths, and the Kha'Ri dearly wanted a way to create some genetically.  Rumour had it that G'Kar had been working on such a project for some time.
      "Mr. Bester is dead," replied another voice, one G'Kael did not recognise.  Turning, he saw a human dressed in a strange military uniform that was unfamiliar to him.  "The Shadows have taken Sanctuary.  Therefore there will be no telepaths from him."
      Ah, yes.  He knew who this was now.  Major Krantz, a servant of some human individual named Bester, who was apparently high-ranking in the human telepathic organisation, the Psi Corps.  He and the Alliance had had some sort of deal, but now it appeared that this Bester was dead.
      Hadn't there been some scandal concerning this Major Krantz?  He struggled to remember.  There had been a meeting, shortly after his arrival here.  Krantz had been.... detained, or arrested, or something.  He had been all but forgotten in the aftermath of the battle, and no decision had been taken as to his fate.  By the time the Alliance had got around to it, they had lost all contact with Bester.  Krantz was therefore here by default, not a member of the Council, but pressed into serving on one of the capital ships.
      An aide came forward and whispered to Lethke quietly for a few moments.  The Brakiri listened intently, nodded, and rose from his chair.  In the midst of another argument between Vizhak and the Abbai representative, Ambassador Kalika, about the provision of telepaths, no one noticed Lethke's departure.
      They all noticed when he returned, however, a minute or so later.  He tapped on the table gently for a few moments until the conversation died, and everyone looked up at him.
      "I have just received a transmission from a ship approaching here," he said.  "We have.... a most renowned visitor who wishes to make our acquaintance."

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

"We'll be at Z'ha'dum soon," the Captain said.  "I'm not sure what to expect when we get there, but....  We'll have to be ready."
      He looked firmly at Lyta, who met his gaze.  She then seemed to recoil from it, and looked down at the table.
      The Captain, Lyta and Corwin were in the ready room, a place Sheridan and Corwin knew well enough.  The upgrade had virtually left this place alone, which was just as well.
      "I'll do what I can," Lyta replied numbly.  "But I can't hold off the entire Shadow fleet."
      "You won't have to," the Captain promised her.  "I don't think you'll even need to use your powers.... not if this works out right, anyway.  You're more of a deterrent than anything else."
      The old Lyta might have come up with a sarcastic retort to that, Corwin thought.  The Lyta in front of him did not.  In fact, she didn't say anything.  She had changed a lot recently.  She had been almost invisible for so long, ever since the Vorlon Ambassador had arrived, and then she had come along on the mission a few weeks ago.  She had hardly spoken then either.
      And then Corwin suddenly realised something.  The Captain was so.... confident.  Something just did not feel right here.
      "What if we do get opposition?" Corwin asked.  "I mean.... how exactly are we going to handle this?  For that matter, what are we even going to do when we get there?"
      "Get Delenn back," came the solemn reply.
      "What?  Are we just going to ask them to hand her back?"
      "Something like that.  Look.... David.  I realise I haven't been in the driver's seat for a while, and I know you've got used to running the place while I've been.... ill.  And I know that you've got too much experience to be running around as second.  It doesn't matter anyway, once this is over and we get back to Kazomi Seven, you'll get your own ship to command.  You've more than earned one."
      "I.... thanks.  Where would we get...?  It doesn't matter, but...."
      The Captain interrupted him.  "But I need someone I can trust as my second here.  This is.... important.  I know it must look so selfish, threatening myself and my crew just to get my girlfriend back.... but I have to."
      "I'm not criticising you.  No one is.  The Alliance needs Delenn.  We all do."
      The Captain smiled.  "Yes.... we all do."  He paused, then continued.  "The thing is, I've got a plan.  I can't explain it to anyone now.  You just have to trust me.  That's all I'm asking.  If it goes right.... and I hope it does, we won't have to fight anyone.  We'll just get Delenn back, and head to Kazomi Seven, and we'll get on with finishing the whole damned war.
      "Are you with me?"
      "You know I am."
      The Captain visibly relaxed, nodding.  "Good.  Thank you, David.  I'll need you....  I'll need you a great deal.  Now, I'd better go off and talk to Ko'Dath.  She and her Narn Bat Squad may need to be ready, just in case something does go wrong."
      He left the room, and Lyta immediately followed him.  Her movements were stiff and awkward, almost like a wooden puppet.  Corwin looked at them both thoughtfully, then rose to his feet and followed them out.
      He might not entirely know what was going on here, but he did know that the Captain was trusting him, and he was determined not to let him down.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

It was dark, but then it had always been dark, and in all the many years since he had last been here, he knew that would not have changed.
      Dexter Smith, former Captain of humanity's flagship and currently wanted for first degree murder (or if he wasn't yet, then he soon would be) crept into the dark tunnel, dropping down the foot or so to the floor.  There had been security fencing around the building, but it had been full of holes.  The authorities had obviously been relying on the 'Danger.  Unstable Building.  Do Not Enter.' sign to deter people coming here.  Stupid, they might as well have put up a sign saying 'Fine Place For Kids to Come and Explore'.
      He didn't know if the kids did come here these days.  He and his brother had, frequently, and the place hadn't even been fenced off then.  There had been all sorts of theories as to what this building had actually been before it had been turned into a fun place for kids to come and explore.  A house that had once belonged to a serial killer.  A place cursed by some alien race who had once lived here.  A halfway house for the telepath underground railroad.
      Smith had later found out that the building had just been a factory which had had to close down and which no one had wanted to buy.  It was funny, but that had never been one of anyone's theories when they were children.
      But whatever the building was now, or had been, it was also a perfect place to hide.
      Here he could think, set up some plans, and find out if Trace was actually going to pressure Bo into calling this a full-fledged murder and not self-defence.  He would soon find out either way.
      He banged his head on the ceiling and swore to himself.  Surely the place hadn't been this small last time?
      He had gone straight from Bo's to his apartment, grabbing what spare clothes and loose change he could.  There were still some areas of Sector 301 where it was advisable to deal with actual currency rather than a credit chip, and plenty of people only too willing to do so.  He had also made sure to grab his private citizen's PPG.  He had a feeling he might be needing it.
      And if there was a warrant put out on him for first degree murder, what then?  There were ways out of 301, he knew.  Some of them might have changed now, but it was still possible he could find a way to 303, and then head up to Main Dome.  He supposed he had some friends there somewhere, people from whom he could try to get help.  Maybe he could even report Allan's corruption.
      He chuckled dryly to himself.  A wide range of airy-fairy solutions that would never get him anywhere.  The powers that be in Main Dome preferred 301 this way.  It was much easier to handle.
      He suddenly stopped dead.  Someone else was here.  The basement level was dark, but there was just enough light from the cracks in the walls to make out shapes.  He didn't want to waste the energy cells in his torch until he got to the sub-basement level.
      He couldn't see anyone, and he couldn't hear anything, but he somehow knew that someone was here.  Could it be a kid?  It was possible they still came to places like this.  Was it a school-day today?  He then cursed that thought.  As if it would matter whether it was a school-day or not.  That had never stopped him.
      "Who's there?" he asked softly.  More than likely it was a kid, or some vagrant sleeping rough.  "I'm not going to hurt you."
      There was a brief surge of pain at the back of his skull, and he trembled slightly.  A telepath.  That ruled out most of the alternatives, and all of the nice ones.
      He had a feeling he knew who this was.
      Closing his eyes - more for the symbolic reassurance it gave him than anything else - he sought the void again.  He had no idea what he was actually doing, it just came to him in certain situations.  A residual legacy of his mother's telepathy perhaps, although she had never been very powerful.
      There!  He moved forward slowly.  Something brushed past his arm, and he lunged out and grabbed at whoever it was.  Something rolled beneath his feet and he fell, but he brought his companion down as well.
      "I'm not going to hurt you," he said again.  "It's you, isn't it?  Dammit, speak to me!"
      There was a flash of light, and he looked up to see who was with him.  She was holding a torch that illuminated both their faces.  He looked into her eyes, and had the slight satisfaction of being right.
      "So," said Talia Stoner, or Winters, or whatever name she was using.  "What are you doing here?"

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Emperor Londo Mollari stirred from his private vigil of contemplation only when told by one of the many people running around on this ship that they were about to come out of hyperspace.  He supposed he should have gone to his personal quarters on the Barge to prepare his luggage and his aides, but he was quite happy standing here, looking at the formless, shifting nothing that was hyperspace.
      So, back to Kazomi 7.  He wondered just how changed the place was from the war-torn, broken ruin he had left.  He wondered just how changed Delenn was.
      "Almost there," he said, partly to himself, partly to Lennier.  The Minbari did not reply.  He had not really been expecting him to.
      "Is G'Kar there already, I wonder?"  The Narn had left Centauri Prime some days before Londo.  He did not have the disadvantage of having to prepare all that packing and the ceremonial guard and all the other decorative bits that came with being Head of State.
      On the other hand, he did have the disadvantage of having to sneak out.
      "Not yet," said Lennier in his usual quiet tone.  Londo had to strain to hear most of what he was saying.  "He should be there by tomorrow, assuming there are no problems at Greater Krindar."
      "How do you know that?" he asked, and then muttered angrily to himself.  He would either not get an answer, or he would get a reply that was so vague it told him nothing.  Greater Krindar....  He knew that name.  Ah yes, a prominent supply station, fairly deep in non-aligned space, and on several important borders.  Most of the trade to the Alliance was being filtered through there, he seemed to recall.
      "G'Kar told me his plans and his itinerary," came the reply.  Londo was surprised.  Actual information.  He was very impressed.  "He wanted someone to know, so that if anything untoward happened to him we would know where to begin back-tracking."
      "Ah.  Very.... efficient."  He wondered if G'Kar had noticed that Lennier was no longer wearing his Ranger badge.
      There was a slight jolt, and Londo started, spilling his drink on the front of his tunic.  He looked up, and saw hyperspace folding slightly.  Somewhere towards the front of the ship, then, a jump point would be forming.
      He declined to look at this wonder of light and colour and technology, and, turning away from the observation windows, he began fumbling for a cloth to wipe the stain from his tunic.
      "They will insist on my wearing white, won't they?  Ceremonial and traditional.  Bah!  Impossible to get stains out of as well.  And I am sure they will all be having multiple heart attacks at the thought of the Emperor making first contact with the United Alliance in a brivare-stained tunic!  Nothing gets brivare out of silk.  Not a single thing.  Why couldn't it be black, or at least a deep, rich purple.  I always look good in purple.  I...."
      He suddenly became aware of a soft gasp from wherever it was in the shadows Lennier was hiding.  He looked up and saw the Minbari come into view, walking towards the window.  He turned, and noticed two things.
      First, that they had completed the jump to normal space.  Kazomi 7 was clearly in sight.
      Secondly, that there was one other ship present in orbit.  Well, actually there were a great many ships, but they were little things.  Drazi Sunhawks, Brakiri merchant vessels.  Little shuttles.
      This was bigger than that.  Considerably so.  It was bigger than the Imperial Barge.  It was bigger than the Valerius.  It was bigger than both of them put together.  It would be bigger than five heavy cruisers all put together.  It was bigger than....
      Londo stopped that train of thought, and mentally classified the thing as 'huge'.  It wasn't an entirely accurate description, but it would have to do.
      It was like no ship he had ever seen before, and resembled not so much a ship as a flying castle.  There were turrets and towers.  There was something which looked like a giant gateway.  There were brief pinpricks of a luminous, golden light coming from various points on the thing.
      Londo had never seen anything like it, but he had heard things.
      "Valen's Name," Lennier breathed.
      "Let me guess," said the Emperor, feeling thoroughly awed.  "That would be Cathedral, yes?"

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Four, five, six....
      Delenn had not been expecting luxurious accommodation, and so she was not overly disappointed.  She had been expecting a room that was more of a prison cell than a hotel suite, and so she was not surprised there either.  These two unpleasant non-surprises did not in any way match up to the shock of Neroon's presence here.
      Did the Vorlons know that?  Had they sent her here specifically because they knew Neroon was here?  How could they know that?  She shook her head and walked around, trying to ease her tension.  She was counting, and wishing she could remember Vejar's exact words when he had given her the device.
      She had gone to him before leaving Kazomi 7, and had told him what she had to do.  The others - Lyta, Lethke and John - she had left messages for.  They would try to stop her if they knew, but Vejar....  He knew of the greater destiny, and he had the power to create the type of device she was looking for.
      He had done so within minutes, and had handed it to her.  A small globe, easily concealed within her clothing.  To activate it, all she had to do was whisper a small incantation, and then, on the count of one hundred, it would explode, destroying everything in this room, this building, and most of the city.
      She did not know if this was what the Vorlons had had in mind when they had ordered her to come here.  All she knew was that they wanted her to die.  And so, if she must die, she would at least make sure her death would achieve something.  Then.... her soul would ascend to the next life, and she would wait for John to join her.  She prayed for that more than anything else.
      She hoped he had got her message.  If he had, then he would understand.
      She had told him of the sacrifice she had made for him, that he was better suited to lead in these times than she was, that she hoped they would meet again in the place where no shadows fall, and ultimately that she would always love him.  It had been the hardest thing she had ever had to do.
      The message to Lyta had been a little easier, the one to Lethke easier still, and Sinoval....  He would understand better than any of them.  He did not love her.  He did not love anyone.  She doubted that he could.
      But he was a perfect product of this age, of this time.  He would be needed.  He would pursue the war, he would help to win it, and then, if he survived and there was peace, he would fall back into the shadows, to walk only in nightmares and dreams, and die alone.  People such as him were designed for war, and not peace.
      She looked at the globe.  It was on the table before her.  It seemed to be glowing.
      Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four....
      One hundred.  And then it would be done.  The casual power of the technomages appalled her, that Vejar could create this in such a short time.  It was perhaps just as well that most of them had gone away to hide.  She shuddered to think of anyone wielding such power.
      Had Vejar done this so quickly?  A sudden thought came to her.  What if he had prepared this beforehand?  Had he known?  How could he?  She remembered something, and a chill crept up her spine.  She almost lost count, and hastily resumed
      Vejar had been conspicuous by his absence ever since Ulkesh had arrived at Kazomi 7.  He had been avoiding the Vorlon completely.
      Fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight....
      Delenn tried to clear her mind of these worries.  Whatever the technomage's plans, she could do nothing about it here.  She trusted Vejar.  He had every reason to want the Shadows destroyed.  She had seen him blaze with anger at the sight of what their Keepers were doing to innocent people.  Vejar was young and idealistic.  He cared.
      Seventy, seventy-one, seventy-two....
      She brought her thoughts back to John.  She hoped he had understood.  It was a sacrifice she had made partly out of necessity, but also out of love.  Her life for his.  It was one she had made willingly, although with anger at having been forced into it.
      Still, they had been together for one night.  She clung to the memory of his touch, his kisses, his love.  His wonder at being able to touch her again, to kiss her again.
      She had looked down at him sleeping, and committed that image to her memory.  They had never had a formal Minbari courtship.  They had gone through one of the rituals, but no more.  They had never truly had the sleep-watching, although they had watched each other sleep, he watching her often.
      Eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety....
      "It will not be long, my love," she whispered.  "I will wait for you.  If the universe wills it.... we will meet again."
      Ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three....
      "I love you."
      Ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six....
      "Remember me."
      Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine....
      "Forgive me."
      A single tear trickled down her cheek as she said the last number aloud.
      "One hundred."
      Nothing.
      She looked up, startled, wondering if her count had been wrong.  One hundred, that was what Vejar had said.  She remembered that clearly.
      One hundred.
      Still nothing.
      She looked at the globe.  It was still glowing.  She reached out to touch it, puzzled and confused, and just before she did so it split open, revealing a small image she recognised as Vejar.
      Delenn, the image said formally.  I hope you will forgive me my little deception, although I will understand if you do not.  This never was the type of device you asked me for, although that was easily within my power to create.  Alas, I fear such a death is not your destiny.... and we could not allow such a grievous defeat to come to those who dwell at Z'ha'dum.  That would.... upset the balance.
      If by some chance you endure this ordeal and return to Kazomi Seven, then I will understand if you wish to exact some revenge upon me for my.... for what you could perceive as my treachery.  I would not blame you.  I will say only that this path was forced upon me by my superiors.  Lord Elric appeared before me mere minutes before you arrived with your request.
      Many months ago, when you first came to us seeking our aid, my lord Elric warned you that a time would soon come when you would have to make a choice.  A difficult and hard choice.  I know what that choice is to be, and I do not envy you it.  However, unlike my lord Elric, I have every confidence that you will choose wisely and well.  I chose to remain behind in your world, Delenn, because I wished to see the one upon whom so much turned.  I have been proud to know you, O Blessed Delenn, and I hope to call you friend.
      Choose well, Delenn.  I fear that if you do, I will never see you again, and if you do not choose well.... then I will pray never to see you again, for such a world will not be one in which I wish to live.  We serve neither Vorlon nor Shadow, I and my brethren.  We know both for what they are, and we recognise the need for balance.
      Goodbye, Blessed Delenn.  Peace be with you.

      The image faded, and before her eyes the globe turned into a pile of dust.
      Her heart beating hard, Delenn rose to her feet.  She had understood so little of that, but she did know that the technomages would not let her inflict this injury upon the Shadows.
      She went to the door, almost running.  Pulling at it, she knew that it was locked.
      Trapped.  Trapped here, without the hope of an easy death.  Trapped here.... to be made host to one of their Keepers, to be turned against her friends, to be....
      She reeled across the room and fell onto the bed.  It was hard and uncomfortable, and sleep was a very long time coming.



Into jump gate




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