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| Volume 2: The Death of Flesh, the Death of Dreams | Part I: The Cost of Alliances |
HER voice is still and her ears are closed, but that does not mean that she hears only silence. For, far greater than each tremor of agony which tears through her body, greater than each breath of acid flame which burns her throat, greater than every beat to send boiling blood through tiny veins, greater than each ache, each pain or each fevered imagining, greater than all is the sound which only she hears.
The sound of a world - and a people - screaming their last.
Although she has company - of an unusual sort, admittedly: a Minbari poet and a presumed-dead Centauri noble - she finds herself still and always alone.
Her least favourite place to be.
For it is when she is alone that she hears and sees most. She sees the darkness in her soul and the blood on her own hands. She sees once again - as she has countless times in the last year or so - just what she has done.
There are many who would say that it is no less than Delenn of Mir deserves.
* * * * * * *
John Sheridan by contrast couldn't be happier. He too is alone - in one sense of the word - but he is not hiding in a cargo bay, as are Delenn and her companions. He is where he has always felt he belongs. Admittedly this ship - the Parmenion - is not his, and neither is most of the crew. This is not his trusted Babylon, but it is nonetheless where he belongs. On the bridge, first into the breach, a place where he is a captain, a soldier, a warrior.
A place where he does not have to remember what he has done.
Currently the Parmenion is approaching the border of Tuchanq space, set to meet a member of that little-known race. Slaves to the Narn Régime for twenty-five years, they recently regained their freedom only to be threatened with losing it again.
Sheridan wondered if they appreciated the irony that their one hope of salvation now came from the same source that had imprisoned them twenty-five years earlier.
"Ten minutes from the rendezvous point, sir," spoke up the technician at helm, a confident, capable man named Guerra.
Sheridan flicked his gaze to the figure at his right. She was not a member of the bridge crew, nor of the Narn Security forces - dubbed the 'Narn Bat Squad'. Nor did she look comfortable in her current position. She looked out of place, dressed not in the Earthforce uniform Sheridan and his second, Commander Corwin, still clung to, nor in the Psi Corps-reminiscent uniforms worn by the rest of the bridge crew. No, Lyta Alexander wore plain, unadorned black, without the gloves Psi Corps telepaths always wore. Sheridan recognised garb of mourning when he saw it.
And she had reason to mourn. Scarcely a month since the death of her lover, Marcus Cole, and Lyta had spent most of that time recovering from horrible injuries sustained during the incident that had killed Marcus.
Sheridan knew what it was like to lose someone he loved. He also knew one of the best ways to deal with that grief. Well, in the short term at least.
"You detecting anything?"
She shook her head, and spoke a few moments later. "Nothing. No sign of them."
That did not mean much. Sheridan knew just how fast those Shadow ship things could appear and disappear. He wasn't expecting to run into any of them here - this was just a routine mission after all - but it never hurt to be prepared for anything. Besides, Bester insisted that the Parmenion have at least one powerful telepath aboard, and Sheridan took satisfaction in having chosen the one telepath on Sanctuary who held no personal loyalty to Bester. The fact that Lyta hated Sheridan and blamed him for Marcus' death was neither here nor there.
"Tuchanq ship coming into range, sir," said Guerra. "They're broadcasting all the correct signals."
Actually it would be a Narn ship. The Tuchanq had no spaceflight technology of their own. All that they had now, they had taken from the Narns.
Sheridan - every human - knew how they must feel.
"Hail them."
"They're responding, sir. Audio only."
"Put them on."
"Greetings from the Tuchanq," came a crackling voice over the communications system. The Tuchanq had evidently learned Interlac from the Narns, as the Parmenion's translator system was managing well enough. "This is nuViel Roon, nominal leader of the Tuchanq people."
"I am Captain John Sheridan, of the Parmenion. I'm representing Mist.... that is, Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar here. I believe you are having some problems?"
"Yes, Captain. May I say that I am grateful to you and to.... Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar for your assistance. Would you care to come to our world where we can brief you on the situation?"
"I would be honoured."
"We are transmitting the relevant details now. I am.... signing off."
The message ended and Sheridan looked around at his bridge crew, especially at Lyta. "Anything?"
She shook her head. "No. Those.... Shadows aren't within a hundred light years of here. Believe me, Captain. I'd know if they were."
Yes, he thought. I don't doubt you would. But he did not say this aloud. Discretion was ever the better part of valour.
* * * * * * *
There was a time when Londo Mollari had had as little as possible to do with Minbari, but then there was also a time when Londo Mollari's favourite activities had involved getting drunk, going to seedy strip bars, gambling very badly and getting into fights. He liked to think that he had matured since then.
No amount of maturity could have prepared him for the situation he found himself confronted with several hours away from his destination of Kazomi 7. Hiding in the cargo bay of an Ipsha shuttle was bad enough, but he could at least pass that off as part of the grand adventure which was going to return him - for a while at least - to the glorious days of his youth. Finding the legendary technomages, enlisting their assistance in G'Kar's struggle against the Enemy.... all of that was part of the great adventure.
Death, pain and suffering were not supposed to be involved.
Delenn let out another low moan, whispering a few haunted words in Minbari, and Londo sat back, trying to avoid her thrashings. He had considered using some Ipsha cord to tie her down, but the only types of cord available were either too flimsy or too tight. He doubted he'd do Delenn much good by placing her in a situation in which she might unwittingly slice her arms off. And so he'd resolved simply to hold her down as much as he could, and try to stop her injuring herself.
Delenn had been quiet and withdrawn throughout their journey, which had lasted several days and involved much changing of shuttles to disguise their point of origin effectively. Londo's initial attempts at conversation had been rebuffed, but he hadn't truly minded, letting Lennier bear the brunt of his anecdotes, life lessons and little jewels of wisdom. Admittedly he hadn't been paying Delenn much attention, but she hadn't looked very ill. Then, about two hours ago, she had simply collapsed all of a sudden, shaking and trembling. On reaching her, he discovered that her skin was hot and dry. Very hot, in fact. With no medical care available he had done what little he could to keep her safe, but he was a politician after all, not a doctor.
Fortunately G'Kar had briefed him thoroughly on everything he had uncovered about Delenn's.... unique genetic condition. According to G'Kar - who actually seemed to know what he was talking about - her transformation in some chrysalis device thingy had been interrupted prematurely, leaving her human and Minbari systems fatally unstable. A few weeks before, she had collapsed into a coma, and G'Kar had said that fevers, near-epileptic fits and so on might result from that earlier incident. With that in mind, Londo was hoping that she would emerge fairly soon, unharmed, but that reassurance made matters no easier.
Especially when he was receiving no help.
"Were you planning on helping her, ever?" he had earlier snapped at Lennier, who had been standing by silently during the beginning of Delenn's collapse.
"I cannot," had come the soft, almost formal reply. Londo could not remember if he had heard regret in the Minbari's voice or not. "She is Zha'valen - a shadow upon Valen. I may not touch her, look at her, or speak her name."
"Great Maker," Londo had snapped. "Surely you know that name is unwarranted!"
"Yes. I have been told - and I do believe this - that her casting out was a ploy orchestrated by Sinoval to further his own power. I am certain that she did not perform the deeds for which she is blamed."
"Then why can you not help her, man?"
"Because she is still Zha'valen, named so by the Grey Council. It does not matter that she should not be. It does not matter that she is innocent. My own.... opinions do not matter either. What is.... is, and as of this moment, what is.... is that she is Zha'valen."
"And yet you were willing to come on this quest to help her?" Londo had been incredulous at the time, and still was.
"Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar asked me to. He said that you would need protection, and that I am to protect you. He has asked, and so I will do. That changes nothing."
"Bah! Minbari!" And so Londo had returned to trying to help Delenn, his conversation with Lennier leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Several hours later, the taste was still there.
It was Lennier who spoke first. "I am.... sorry if I have offended you, Minister Mollari. Your opinion of me matters greatly to me. I.... apologise...."
"Hah - no need. I do not think I will ever understand you people, but still.... she seems to be recovering. I...."
"Minister Mollari?"
"No, never mind..... it does not matter." Londo turned back to Delenn, alarmed to hear that she was speaking. He tried to follow her words, but they were in her native tongue and he spoke little Minbari. "What is she saying?" he thought. "What can she possibly be saying when she can barely move?"
"She is begging," Lennier said softly, and Londo started. He had not realised he had been speaking aloud.
"Begging? For what?"
Lennier looked directly into Londo's eyes, and then he bowed his head, saying just one word. "Forgiveness."
A dark mood settled across Londo at that moment. This had seemed fun before.... an adventure, little more. But when he was faced with the prospect of death and suffering - when he heard Delenn's anguished moans - he realised that real life is not an adventure, and there are not always happy endings.
But that mood did not last long. When the Ipsha freighter docked at Kazomi 7, by which time Delenn was at least capable of walking again, Londo had returned to his old self.
For a little while at least.
* * * * * * *
Minbari do not, by and large, have places of worship. Given that they do not have Gods as many other races do, and venerate all life, they deem it futile to pick out certain places as being more or less holy than others. To them, all life is sacred and to be treated with reverence and respect.
At least, that is what they say. And asking a Minbari how these beliefs square with the destruction of Earth is not a wise idea.
At least, that is what the religious caste say.
The warrior caste believe more or less the same. They simply feel less of a need to talk about it. They have always prided themselves on being concerned with actions, not words. And if by one's actions shalt thou know him, then the sight of workers being massacred all over Minbar certainly revealed a great deal about the warrior caste at present.
There was one particular warrior far from Minbar and that destruction. He was both wholly responsible and yet at the same time completely innocent of the massacres taking place on Minbar. They were being carried out in his name, and with one word he could have stopped them, but he did not.
Sinoval of the Wind Swords clan was seeking his own form of redemption. He knew many things - perhaps too much to remain entirely a warrior any more. He knew the truth of the destruction of the Grey Council that had started the series of bloody massacres - of how Hedronn the worker was not guilty of the murder of his fellows, but of how the Dilgar Jha'dur had forced him unwillingly to do it. He also knew of what Jha'dur had done to Sheridan the Starkiller - infecting him with a deadly, and ultimately terminal virus. Whether he knew that Sheridan - or in fact anyone else - did not know about this virus was a moot point, as he certainly would not have told him.
Sinoval knew far too much, and so he had left Minbar - had left the Grey Council which he, in theory, still led, had left his people to whatever doom he had unwittingly sealed for them at the Battle of the Second Line.
Sinoval had a personal purging to perform.
Minbari do not believe in holy places. At least, the religious and worker castes do not. The warriors sometimes know different.
The planet was unnamed now, somewhere in the space claimed by the League of Non-Aligned Worlds, somewhere between Ipsha and Hyach territories. The Minbari had once called it Iwojim, but merchants and traders these days spoke only of the fourth world from the star Minneyar. It was uninhabited. Its atmosphere was barely breathable, but Sinoval could handle it easily enough. Minbari were not as weak as some other races, although to be fair, most of the standard oxygen-breathing peoples could have survived here with a little effort and ingenuity. Why they would want to is another matter. The planet contained no valuable minerals, little plant or animal life, was not strategically important, straddled no trade routes.... was little more than a rock floating in space.
To everyone except the highest-ranking members of the Minbari warrior caste, who knew something about this rock that no one else did.
A thousand years before, Valen had strode across this world, fighting here. An engagement with the Enemy. A simple skirmish, no more.
Sinoval remembered the legends he had heard about this place. Valen's ship had apparently crashed here, leaving the One alone and abandoned. His lieutenants, Marrain, Parlonn and Derannimer, had searched for him, but the Enemy presence here had been strong and their search had been delayed, and ultimately postponed. Valen had survived here alone, pursued, hunted, for months until Marrain had managed to elude the Shadow patrols and rescue him.
The highest warriors - the Alyts, the Shai Alyts, the Satai - they knew this story and they remembered it. They claimed proudly in their hearts that this place was proof that a Minbari spirit could never die, that even when faced by the greatest darkness, some light would always shine.
Sinoval had come here to bring some light to his greatest darkness, and perhaps to commune with the spirit of Valen himself, so that he could ask but one question:
Why?
* * * * * * *
Lyta Alexander was alone, in the company of others. To be precise, she was in a shuttle heading for the Tuchanq city of Ellaenn, accompanied by Captain Sheridan, Major Krantz and two of the human security team. Sheridan and Ko'Dath had agreed that taking Narns on to the surface of Tuchanq would not be a good idea.
But she was still alone. Always alone.
At present she was thinking, remembering an uncomfortable meeting several hours earlier, during the journey here....
Lyta had started as her door chimed. She hadn't been thinking. She hadn't been sleeping either, although she might as well have been. She had started 'zoning out' during her recovery from the injuries she received on Proxima. These instances had been increasing recently, and it took great concentration for her to keep rooted in the real world when they happened. Sometimes she did not bother.
The door chimed again and she rose to her feet, rearranging her hair slightly. Once she realised what she was doing, she stopped.
"Who is it?" she asked.
"Commander Corwin. Can I have a word?" His voice did not sound overly friendly, but Lyta did not pick up any hostile intentions. How she'd managed to read him through the door was not something she cared to worry about.
"Come in." The door opened and Corwin stepped in. He looked poised and calm, but he could not hide the almost instinctive shying away he always displayed in Lyta's company - the way any 'normal' acted in the company of telepaths.
"Commander, if you wanted to see me, you could just have used my link."
"I wanted to speak to you in private," he replied. "About the Captain, and about Bester."
"I don't want to hear this," she breathed.
"That doesn't matter. We both know how you feel about the Captain, and so does he. He doesn't mind, because he seems to think that you'll do the best you can. He also seems to think that your loyalties aren't with Mr. Bester. Now the Captain's a good man, but he has been wrong before. It happens. He's not perfect - no one is, but it's my job to make sure he isn't wrong this time. Whose side are you on, Miss Alexander?"
"Since when did sides matter?"
"They always did. You're not one of Bester's people, but you have had dealings with him, right?"
"I.... yes. I interned with the Psi Cops for a while during my training. Just before the war."
"I knew that. I looked it up in your record. What I meant was that you've had some dealings with Bester personally, haven't you?"
"Yes.... A few."
"Did you know about Sanctuary? About Ben Zayn? About G'Kar?"
"No! I knew no more than the rest of you did. He'd survived the war and had a base somewhere. I was only a P five, for God's sake! Why would Bester tell me anything?"
"That's what I was asking you. One more question, then. What about the Captain?"
"What about him?"
"I need to know you're loyal. He seems to think you will be. Are you?"
"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't."
"That's not an answer. Would you die for him if necessary?"
"Would you?" she snapped back. A petty question, because she already knew the answer.
"Of course." And he would, too. No hesitation, no doubt. Nothing. She did not need to be a telepath to know that he was telling the truth. "And so would Marcus have."
"Marcus did die for him!"
"No," Corwin replied, shaking his head. "Marcus died for you." He turned his back and made for the door, but he stopped before he reached it. "You'll have to choose sides sooner or later. Please make it sooner."
And then he had left.
It was only now, several hours later, that Lyta remembered something unusual in what she had said. It had seemed so natural at the time, but now.... She had said, "I was only a P five...."
So what was she now?
You are the future. You are our future. That was the voice she only heard in her mind. It was the first time she had heard it speak to her since Marcus had died.
It did not bring her any reassurance at all.
"Miss Alexander?" It was Major Krantz.
"Yes?" She suddenly realised that they had landed. The others had risen and were disembarking from the shuttle.
"Are you coming?"
She swallowed harshly and then nodded, unbuckling her flight restraints and rising to her feet.
You are the future.... She wished she could be sure that she would have one.
* * * * * * *
G'Dan ducked back, pressing back against the wall so that his two assailants could not sneak up behind him. He doubted that they would, but it never hurt to be safe.
The leading Drazi swung his heavy staff-like weapon at G'Dan's head and the Narn managed to duck. There was little subtlety in Drazi fighting techniques, but then the same could be said about the Narns'.
At least G'Dan was armed with a katok, a weapon with which he was very familiar. Waiting for the Drazi to make his second attack, he lightly side-stepped and thrust forward with the long sword. It pierced the Drazi just below the neck - precisely at the area where a large number of blood vessels joined, merging into the centre of his circulatory system. The Drazi stiffened, brackish, foul-smelling dark blood spewing up into his mouth. He fell, and brought his heavy arm crashing down on to the katok as he did so.
The blade broke, snapping into two pieces.
G'Dan's second opponent - a Tuchanq - took advantage and leaped forward, her long, curved knife seeming to grow as she did so. The Tuchanq were far faster and more agile than any heavy-boned Narn could be, and they had the advantage of years of hatred.
Fortunately he managed to throw himself aside to avoid the blade piercing his eye, but it did scratch along his neck.
Weaponless, he tried to scramble back to his feet, only for his slender opponent to leap up on his back. The Tuchanq were not, by and large, skilled in hand-to-hand combat, but G'Dan was tired and hurt.
Ignoring his opponent's almost negligible weight, he threw himself backwards against the wall of their cell. He heard her ululating song-like scream as he fell forward again.
Her knife pierced his shoulder - whether by design or simply in spasm, he did not know. Or care. G'Dan threw himself backwards again and this time he heard the sickening squelch of the Tuchanq's sensory spines mashing against the wall.
He fell forward, breathing harshly. He could feel countless wounds decorating his body, and yet he struggled to remain conscious. This was the third time he had been tested in battle against beings of different races. He was not afraid of them, but he was determined not to let those behind this escape freely.
He would destroy the Streibs if it took every breath remaining in his body.
* * * * * * *
He was aware of the stranger's arrival before his companions needed to tell him. He had in fact been expecting it for some time. He liked to remain abreast of matters going on in the galaxy beyond this little rock floating in space, especially matters concerning his own people. Some of those whom he had gathered here were opposed to this idea - they had come here to escape, after all. But most of the others recognised the wisdom in his wanting to remain knowledgeable.
After all, what were the Vindrizi but a storehouse of knowledge?
He supposed he had always known that Sinoval would come here eventually. Even when he was training the Minbari, many cycles ago, he had recognised the spark of greatness within his young student. He had also recognised the fatal spark of ambition - the awesome sense of destiny that would lead Sinoval either to that greatness or to a horrible doom.
It seemed that Sinoval had reached the latter.
There had been three of them, he remembered. Sinoval, Neroon and Tryfan. He had trained them all within cycles of each other. They had been great friends, and great students. He had heard a saying that there was no greater thrill for a teacher than to be surpassed by his pupils. He had only experienced that feeling three times - those three.
What he sensed from Sinoval had worried him, and so he had gone to the prophecies of Valen. Given that he was not Satai, he was not strictly-speaking permitted to look at them, but he had trained all three members of the warrior caste then on the Grey Council and Shakiri had arranged matters.
The prophecies were, not surprisingly, oracular and ambiguous. He understood little of them, but he had managed to find one brief element that almost shone out at him.
One shall fall, and one shall die, and one shall save them all.
Apparently members of the religious caste had been trying to fathom that one for centuries, and yet he had uncovered the answer straight away. He had told no one, however, preferring to keep his suspicions to himself. Now, he believed he was certain.
He had always known that Sinoval would come here. That was probably why he himself had come here in the first place. That fact that he had made contact with the Vindrizi along the way was either the inscrutable workings of the universe or pure blind chance, but either way it did not matter.
Sech Durhan was happy. His student was returning to him after all these cycles.
* * * * * * *
"And this place is where you expect to find.... the ones we are looking for?" Lennier sounded incredulous and Delenn could see why.
"Of course, Mr. Lennier. Do you not know anything? Where is the first place everyone goes when they arrive on a new planet? The nearest bar, of course!"
"We do not have bars in the Minbari Federation," Lennier replied patiently. "Exposure to alcohol makes us.... psychotic. At best."
"Oh, do not worry. This is a trade route. And trade routes require traders. And there was never a trader yet - Minbari excepted - who did not drink. And when they are drunk, they do four things - play cards, look for the nearest available member of the opposite sex, get into a fight, and gossip. If.... the ones we are looking for are not within, then there will be someone who has heard something that will enable us to find them. Now if we can stop hanging around outside and drawing attention to ourselves...."
Delenn could understand Lennier's apprehensions. She shared them herself. This.... bar did not look a reasonable place. It smelled, it was dirty, and judging from the sounds coming from within, it would not be a pleasant experience.
But then her recent fever had not been a pleasant experience either, and she was not about to suffer that again.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside, making sure that her grey cloak hid her head and face.
They had been on Kazomi 7 a total of almost two hours by this time. Officially a Drazi colony, it actually straddled a number of important trade routes among the League of Non-Aligned Worlds, and so was also home to Ipsha, Centauri, Hyach, Brakiri, Pak'ma'ra (although a long way away from everyone else), the odd Narn, a few Gaim, a Tokati or two (even further from the Pak'ma'ra than anyone else) and even one or two humans. The planet was barren, rain-swept and very, very cold. It was also - unsurprisingly given the vast differences of its population - prone to outbursts of extreme violence, especially during the current Drazi green / purple leadership contest.
Londo, of course, was loving it.
He strode in shortly after Delenn and marched straight to the bar, ordering a drink Delenn could only assume was alcoholic. She felt very thirsty, but doubted her stomach could hold down even water.
Instead she cast her eyes around the rest of the bar. She spotted more than a few Drazi, all wearing green sashes. Delenn wondered if this was a Greens-only bar. Looking at the size of the Bulloxian barkeeper, she supposed so.
There was a game of some sort going on a few tables away. It involved a fair amount of shouting and hissing. A Gaim seemed to be winning, and a Brakiri in particular did not look happy.
In a far corner was a group of Centauri - all finely dressed. They seemed to be watching someone dancing. They too were making a fair amount of noise, and throwing things at the dancing person.
And, buried in the shadows at the end of the bar, not drinking, not eating and not gambling, sat one over whom Delenn's gaze slipped. He had not failed to notice her, however.
Vejar the technomage was intrigued.
* * * * * * *
There are places in this universe steeped in greatness, places which seem to attract great deeds and greater people. Then there are places which are of no importance whatsoever, places which will never be any more than they are now.
And there are places where something once happened, and which carry the legacy of that one important event throughout eternity, for as long as memory and sorrow and song exist.
Sinoval of the Wind Swords clan was kneeling at such a place. A place of the past - a thousand years in the past. A place where Valen had stood against the tides of Darkness and had willed the very earth itself to his command, bringing light to the Darkness and alerting his lieutenant Marrain to his position, allowing him to return to his fleet.
Some, although not the Minbari by and large, believe that a person's soul can be absorbed by places which were of great importance to them, so that the spirit of that person remains there after death. Minbari know better. On death, a Minbari soul is drawn back into the web of souls which forms the entire Minbari nation, until it is born again.
Except that recently this belief was being challenged. Sinoval remembered the pitiful cries of Zha'valen Delenn as she faced the Council she had been exiled from - rantings that humans now bore Minbari souls. All had laughed and refused to believe, but Sinoval.... the one who had orchestrated Delenn's exile in the first place....
He doubted.
He already had doubts about many things - doubts that had begun before he had been made Holy One and led his people to the brink of disaster, before he had been Shai Alyt during the jihad against the Earthers, before he had been trained by Durhan.... doubts that had begun at his first foray into the Dreaming, where he had seen a vision of Valen.
Valen, it was said, was not dead. He had simply 'gone beyond' - perhaps waiting for the day of his return. The warriors, who venerated Valen as much as any other Minbari, chose to believe differently. Valen's body might be dead, but his soul lived on - in places where he had fought in life - for was Valen not the greatest of warriors?
Sinoval had sought Valen's soul in the Dreaming - where he had first seen the One Who Was. He had received only silence, and so he had left his world, left his people to collapse into the chaos that resulted from his actions, left his duties and his responsibilities and his friends.
And he had gone out into the galaxy to find Valen, starting with here.
He could feel Valen's essence imbued into the barren rock around him. Here, the great warrior had fought alone against overwhelming odds, triumphing by virtue of his courage and his determination.
"Valen, are you here?" Sinoval whispered. He was kneeling. Minbari did not usually kneel to pray, but it was a gesture which felt appropriate.
"Valen, do you hear me?" Sinoval's tone was humbler now, but the arrogant pride and fierce ambition which had carried him to the pinnacle of greatness were never far removed from the surface. Although Sinoval had led his people to crushing defeat at the Battle of the Second Line in the skies above Proxima, he still believed that he was the right person to lead them.
Some might call that madness.
"Valen! Answer me!"
"Enlightenment does not come to him of the loudest voice," came a soft reply. Sinoval started and looked up, decades of warrior instinct still serving him well. "Nor is it found simply for the asking."
Sinoval made to extend his fighting pike - another instinctive reaction - only to remember that he had it no longer. In a furious rage he had hurled the weapon - one of Durhan's fabled nine blades - into the mists of the Dreaming. His pride had not let him return to reclaim it.
But Sinoval was by no means helpless. Trained by the greatest tactician and warrior alive during his childhood, Sinoval was a warrior without better. Only two had ever been his equal - and Tryfan was dead, while Neroon was missing, embarked long ago on his own personal quest for redemption. Sinoval's hand reached for his other weapon - hidden from view, more from shame at carrying it than from a desire for secrecy.
"'One shall fall, and one shall die, and one shall save them all'," quoted the figure silhouetted against the reddening sun of this nameless planet. Sinoval did not fear the sight of his opponent, any more than he was dazzled by the brilliance of the sun shining in his eyes. But he did fear the words, proof that the mightiest weapon does not need to kill.
"Valen's prophecy," he whispered. Sinoval's mind was fast at work, displaying every aspect of the instinct and intelligence which had taken him to where he was. Only four that he was aware of knew the truth of that prophecy. One was dead. Sinoval himself was another.
"Which are you?"
"I am not dead," Sinoval replied.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Are you fallen? Are you failed? No? Then you must be the saviour."
"I am who I am."
"A dangerous statement to make. What else do you know? Do you know who I am? Name me, pilgrim."
The voice suddenly registered in Sinoval's mind and he could only stare. There had been very few with whom Sinoval had ever been even remotely at ease. Tryfan and Neroon, his greatest friends. Deeron, to whom he had been betrothed, but who had rejected him at the sleep-watching. And one other....
"Sech Durhan," he whispered.
Sinoval found that he was not surprised. Few could muster the air of authority inherent within the aged warrior. Few could master the stern voice of command. Few could stand so proudly. Only one could do all three.
"Sech Durhan."
Gone to the sea of stars years ago - gone out on the last great pilgrimage of every Minbari's life, Durhan was believed to be dead. Sinoval had never believed that, and, while he had not thought of this, now he realised - where better for the greatest warrior of his generation to go to seek death than at the site of one of Valen's greatest triumphs?
"I told you that I would see you again before the end, Sinoval," spoke Durhan as he came into view. "I think that I always knew you would come here. That is why I did. I think I foresaw this, a long, long time ago.
"Come with me, Sinoval. I have a great deal to show you."
* * * * * * *
John Sheridan knew what it was like to lose his home. As did every human in the aftermath of the fall of Earth. He had thought that would enable him to form a bond with the people of Tuchanq - to empathise with their loss, to accept the horror that had engulfed them and work towards making it right again.
He had been wrong.
Ellaenn was the Tuchanq's second city. nuViel Roon had informed Sheridan that their first city - Lothaliar - had been all but destroyed during the initial Narn attack on their planet. Efforts had been made to repair it, but the damage and subsequent pollution were just too great and the city had been abandoned.
If it was possible for a city to be in worse condition than Ellaenn, John Sheridan did not want to know about it.
The whole air around them seemed thick and heavy. The basic atmosphere of Tuchanq was close enough to his own to render breathing masks unnecessary, but just different enough to provoke a general awkwardness.
The atmosphere at Ellaenn was worse. Thick black smog hung everywhere. Visibility was reduced sharply. Everything smelt of rotting flesh.
"The Narns sought to exploit the resources of this world," nuViel Roon had explained, during their 'tour' of the city. "They did not care what they did to it - or to us."
And yet Sheridan and his ship - the Parmenion - were here at the behest of a Narn, to save the fragile Tuchanq merchant fleet from the mysterious race known as the Streibs. Admittedly the order to come here had come from Mr. Bester, leader of the secret Psi Corps space station Sanctuary, and admittedly Bester's other captain - Ari Ben Zayn - had fought the Streibs before on numerous occasions, but Sheridan still detected G'Kar's hand at work here.
How much guilt G'Kar retained over his rôle in the conquest of the Tuchanq Sheridan could only guess at, but he recognised the need for atonement when he saw it.
He paused, looking out of the window of the fragile building which passed for the new Government Centre of the ruined planet. He had come here with select members of his bridge crew - Major Krantz, telepath Lyta Alexander and a few Security (although mercifully no Narns) - to meet with nuViel Roon and the remainder of her Government. This was supposed to be a simple hit-and-run exercise. Find the Streibs and preferably destroy them, but if not, drive them away.
So why G'Kar's orders to come directly down to the planet? Long-term plans for diplomatic contact? Some form of espionage? A quest for redemption? All the logistical details could surely have been settled on board the Parmenion - with all the Narns kept under lock and key of course.
Or was it simply to force Sheridan himself to face up to the sight of another ruined planet? And to give him a chance to say goodbye to his own?
* * * * * * *
Lennier was watching Londo's excesses with the sense of polite reservation and awe commonly displayed by some of the less refined races towards horrific accidents - the whole sight was horrible, but strangely fascinating.
Londo was currently beginning his eleventh cup of some strange blue liquid that Lennier could only assume was alcoholic. Lennier himself was drinking some kind of fruit juice - based on the Markab drink orcha. Delenn, Lennier noticed - observing her from the corner of his eye - was drinking nothing. She was merely sitting by herself, staring into darkness. She seemed to be shivering.
Somewhere after beginning his fifth cup of the blue alcoholic stuff, Londo had turned to a table where people were throwing small oddly-shaped objects around, and then either cheering or moaning depending upon the way these objects landed. Lennier found it hard to understand why these 'dice' could command such almost mythic awe, but he was more than willing to observe the practices of others. He had learned in his travels - very few of which had led him other than to Minbari colony-worlds or Centauri major cities - that the diversity of life was indeed a wonderful thing.
"Pah!" Londo snapped, coming away from the table. "Ilarus is having fun with me tonight...."
"Ilarus?"
"Goddess of Luck, and patron of gamblers. She and I have a long and very dubious relationship."
Lennier looked around and lowered his voice. "Minister Mollari, we are only wasting time here. I have heard nothing about.... those we seek, and it is doubtful if you will be able to hear any gossip from over there."
"Patience, Mr. Lennier. I know what I am doing."
"Yes. With respect, Minister, you are losing a lot of money. If you need some assistance, then may I provide some?"
"With your respect, Mr. Lennier, this is not a place for poetry. Unless it be a particularly eloquent form of swearing."
Lennier took a deep breath. Sometimes these other races were so.... limited. "I studied for many years at the Temple," he said. "I spent some time studying the laws you call mathematics. I can calculate probability structures and...."
Londo's face seemed to light up. "Ah, Mr. Lennier. I have misjudged you, yes. I think what we need is a different tack, yes. Tell me, have you ever played poker?"
Lennier shrugged. Poker? He'd never even heard of it. "Is it some kind of musical instrument?" he asked. The only music he heard here was what people were dancing to in the corner.
"No, Mr. Lennier. The game over there is losing a few players." Lennier looked across to the table he had noticed earlier. The Gaim was leaving, accompanied by two Vree, leaving a Brakiri and a Llort. The Brakiri gestured over to Londo. "You see, there is always hope. Now, I will explain the rules, and you will explain the probabilities, and together we will clean up."
"As you wish, but I do not see how...."
"Trust me. What about Delenn? Will she be all right?"
Lennier flicked her a glance. She was still sitting in silence, staring into nothingness.
"She will be fine," he said.
* * * * * * *
Blood....
His own, red and sweet. The Tuchanq's, spilling to the ground.
A ritual - what had nuViel Roon called it? A Song of Welcoming. Blending Sheridan's.... Song of Being in with the Song of the Land, to welcome him to Tuchanq.
The ritual had been unusual, but not unpleasant, and so Sheridan was loth to explain his current sense of depression. The ritual could not have had that profound an effect on him - although he did remember catching a brief image of Delenn in the back of his mind during it. He wondered if that was normal for the Song of Welcoming, or simply a sign that he had been thinking about her too much recently.
He didn't want to. He supposed that everything that had happened between the two of them recently.... her betrayal that led to their joint capture during the Battle of the Second Line, their friendly conversation in their cell, and after the battle.... they had so nearly kissed....
Sheridan was trying to rationalise his anger towards her by remembering her betrayal at the Second Line. She had managed to break his communications silence, alerting the Minbari to her presence on the Parmenion, and enabling them to board the ship. Later she had knocked Sheridan himself down, resulting in both of them being captured.
He could understand why she had done this - hoping to end the battle by making the Grey Council aware of the link she felt she had discovered between human and Minbari. It was a noble aim, and one which he understood, even sympathised with. The fact that she had failed was neither here nor there.
It had been easy to forgive her at the time, but perhaps now he had had time to contemplate just how much her actions could have cost them, and just how much of a personal betrayal they were....
Or perhaps he was wrongly directing at her the anger he felt towards himself.
He had nearly kissed her, not even two months after Anna's death. After he had personally shot his wife dead on the bridge of the Babylon. He was angry with himself, angry with Delenn for placing him in that position, angry with Anna for being in the wrong place at the wrong time....
Sheridan intended later on to redirect that anger towards the Streibs, but for now, there was no other target but himself.
After the logistical and tactical meeting had ended, he had requested a chance to wander around the city for a while. nuViel had agreed, but only if he went with a Tuchanq guard, a condition he accepted without really thinking about it.
It was when he saw his guard draw a long sharp dagger that he began to think about it very hard.
Another ritual? No.... he recognised the look in her eyes easily enough.
"Narn-friend," spat the Tuchanq. "Narn-friend, die!"
* * * * * * *
"You mangy abomination son of a Purple! Your mother was a small rodent and your father smells of orcha fruit!"
Lennier blinked slightly and sat back. Minister Mollari definitely did not look happy. He did not sound happy either. The fact that he was still losing vast amounts of money probably had something to do with it.
Lennier wondered why Minister Mollari was reacting so badly. Lennier himself was putting up a respectable performance, and had a fairly adequate pile of chips in front of him. This.... poker did not seem difficult. It was just a matter of calculating probabilities, looking at your cards and evaluating whether it was worth continuing. It was simple enough really. Perhaps he was doing it wrong?
The Drazi was still translating Londo's insult, so Lennier leaned over to speak to his companion, shifting to a Centauri dialect. For obvious ease, everyone here tended to speak the rough and simplistic Trader language.
"Minister Mollari," Lennier whispered. "Drazi are all asexual, so he does not really have a mother, or a father. Insulting him, however, would not be a very wise idea. This is still not getting us anywhere near to finding...."
The Drazi suddenly leapt to his feet. "Green!" he cried out. "Not Purple! Green!"
"Oh, is that the colour of your scarf?" Londo replied. "I swear it looks purple to me."
If Lennier had been human, he would have winced. If he had been in a bar-room brawl before, he would have ducked. If he had been here on any other matter than the personal quest at hand, he would have grabbed his chips and run away very quickly.
As it was, he waited for the Drazi to flip the table up and reach for Londo's throat, before pushing his Centauri companion aside, and standing in the Drazi's way.
"My comrade wishes to.... apologise for his rudeness," Lennier said. "We hope that the gift of my.... winnings thus far in this game will help to ameliorate any hurt feelings in this matter and prevent bloodshed."
The Drazi's response was in his own language rather than the Trader dialect, but that was probably for the best. He moved forward....
.... and Lennier promptly felled him with a swift blow to the midsection. The Drazi fell back, evidently surprised by such force from a mere Minbari. Unfortunately he fell back into the ranks of several more Drazi....
Lennier was beginning to experience his first ever bar-room brawl.
Several punches, kicks and scattered bodies later, he managed to pull Minister Mollari from the clutches of the large number of people wanting to kill him, and find a nice quiet corner of the bar to watch everyone else indulge themselves in mindless violence.
"Minister Mollari, I do not see the point of this! You are endangering not only our lives, but the reason we are here...."
"Shush, Lennier." Londo was smiling, despite a number of cuts and bruises decorating his face. "Look! Over there! I knew it!"
Lennier cast his gaze through the thronging mêlée to a far corner of the room. There was someone there - he could not pick out anything about the figure; it seemed.... shrouded somehow. He hadn't even noticed it before.
Not far away from the figure, a Drazi picked up a struggling Brakiri and threw him towards the wall where the figure stood - either hiding or waiting, Lennier was not sure.
Suddenly the Brakiri fell to the ground, as if he had struck an invisible wall. The Drazi started and moved forward towards the figure, whom he had just begun to notice. The figure took a step forward, revealing himself to be a human male, wearing deep black robes. The Drazi's eyes widened as he charged at the figure, only to suddenly slump and fall. Lennier just picked out the shape of an illuminated symbol hanging in mid-air for a moment - cast from pure light.
The figure stepped over the two unconscious bodies with an air of disdain and walked away. None of the other brawlers seemed to notice his presence.
"You see, Mr. Lennier," Londo said, looking especially smug. "There is method to my madness, after all. There is our technomage. Now hurry! We must follow him before he gets...." Londo suddenly looked around. "Where is Delenn?"
Lennier started. She was not in the place where she had been sitting. She did not appear to be anywhere in the bar either. "We must find her," he said quickly.
"You try," came the reply. "I'll go after that technomage. We cannot lose him."
However, as it turned out, others had plans for them. No sooner had they stepped out of their hiding place than they found themselves surrounded by three very big Bulloxians - wearing some semblance of a uniform.
"Am I to assume that this is another part of your plan?" Lennier asked.
Londo shook his head.
* * * * * * *
Delenn felt as if she was about to collapse at any moment. She could barely breathe, her legs seemed to have doubled in weight and her vision was, at best, limited. All she knew was that she had to continue.
She had not done much since their arrival at the bar, simply sitting, trying to remain conscious, and trying not to think about her fate. She had little faith that anything could cure her - little faith in fact that she even deserved a cure. G'Kar needed the aid of the technomages, yes, and he seemed to feel that she could help gain that aid, but she doubted that they could do anything for her personally.
Her fate - this body - the collapse of all her dreams - they were all punishment for her actions. Punishment for the destruction of Earth, for not doing enough to save her people, punishment for pride, for arrogance, for failure....
She was alone now. Everyone had abandoned her. Her people named her outcast, Lyta - one of the few humans she could call friend - was engulfed by her own concerns which Delenn could do nothing to ameliorate, and John.... John had left her. He had not spoken to her since her collapse.
Delenn had been remembering the warmth of John's breath on her cheek when the brawl began. She had managed to duck out of sight - fortunately providing little target for anyone - and had tried to find Londo and Lennier in the chaos that the room had become.
It was while looking for them that she had seen the technomage.
After felling the Drazi he had simply walked from the room, with only Delenn appearing to notice him. He certainly did not seem to notice anyone else, although his walk did slow as he passed her hiding place.
Delenn recognised him for what he was, and with no Londo or Lennier in sight, and with Bulloxian guards coming in - obviously to quell the brawl - she had elected to pursue the technomage on her own.
It was harder than she had thought.
The air outside was stinging her lungs, and every movement was difficult. Everywhere was dark - the sky managing only the dusky grey that signified the 'first' dawn here on Kazomi 7.
But still Delenn managed to keep the technomage in sight. Had she been fitter and more alert she might have wondered why he was not aware of her pursuit, but she could not think much beyond her next footstep.
Soon, she didn't have to wonder any more.
The technomage turned into an alley and Delenn stumbled after him. As soon as she raised her head, she realised that he was gone. Falling back against the alley wall to rest, she looked back....
.... and there he was. The one she had been following.
She could not see him clearly in the dim light, but she could see that he was human and quite young.
"Here she is, Elric," the technomage said. "You were right."
"Of course, Vejar," spoke a stern voice from the other end of the alley. Delenn turned to see another technomage walk out of nowhere into view. Behind him were others - three, no four, no five.... more and more. Humans, Vree, Centauri.... others she could not recognise.
"The tangled twists of fate brought her here, Vejar," continued the one who had spoken before - presumably their leader. "The question is.... why?"
"You know who she is?" asked Vejar.
"Of course. This is Delenn of Mir. She has a destiny written large in the skies." Elric paused and looked at Delenn. She saw the sheer power burning in his eyes.
"The question is, will she live long enough to accomplish it?"