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| Volume 4: A Future, Born in Pain | Part III: A Universe of Majesty and Terror |
THE city of Yedor had been renowned for many things before its devastation. It was of course the capital of the Minbari Federation, and while the elusive and mysterious Grey Council was not based in the city, many of the Government buildings were.
Even apart from its political significance, Yedor had had much to attract visitors. One of the oldest cities in any civilised world, it was home to many wonders. Libraries, Halls of Records, cathedrals, temples. Monuments, shrines, artificers with skill in the shaping of crystal and stone and metal.
But one of the most beautiful buildings in the city was the Temple of Varenni. It was not the largest temple in Yedor, but it possessed an indefinable beauty and mystery. It was also home to the Starfire Wheel, an ancient weapon few understood. It was there, a thousand years ago, that Valen had been proved worthy in his trial by fire. He had remained in the Starfire Wheel past the point when he should have died, and thus the universe had signalled he had a great destiny to fulfill.
No one knew the exact reason for the construction of the Temple, and few suspected there was anything unusual about it. Of those who did, none grasped the truth, not even Primarch Sinoval the Accursed, who had accomplished the same miracle here as Valen had. Sinoval had access to all the sources of knowledge that could have told him the secrets behind the Temple, but he did not care to look, and he would not have heeded if he had.
Deep within the surface of the earth, in catacombs no Minbari had entered in hundreds of years, there lay a tomb. A Vorlon had been buried there, many centuries ago. A holy figure, even a prophet. The Vorlons had never failed to honour and venerate this spot, and when Minbar had been attacked they had come to ensure it survived.
And now they intended to bring an end to one of their greatest enemies, trusting to the holiness of this place to bring them success.
It is an ancient law, so old it is almost forgotten. It concerns innocent blood, and the shedding of it on holy ground.
There is a Vorlon in Yedor, a young one by the standards of its race. It is to be both the bait, and the trap itself. It knows what is expected of it. It knows that it is sometimes necessary to die for the sake of a worthy cause. It hears the words of the innocent, telling it that he is here. The Accursed One. He is here, and is desecrating their holiest place.
Another might be angry at being expected to walk into such an obvious trap, but the Vorlon does not care, does not heed. The Accursed One is dangerous, yes, and can hurt its kind. But this battle will be fought on holy ground. How can it fail?
The Vorlon pauses as it nears the door to the Temple of Varenni, and something within its ageless soul shivers. The damage to the temple has been repaired. The prophet of old buried here will surely smile upon its children.
She speaks again, urging it on. It moves, and senses the Accursed One within this holy place. It is ready. It is ready to die, and it will do so for the good of its people.
The holy warmth of the Temple of Varenni welcomed the Vorlon.
Primarch Sinoval the Accursed did likewise.
* * * * * * *
Talia Winters has known she was a telepath since she was a child. Since the explosion of her abilities she had been taught how to construct walls, how to guard against the thoughts of mundanes, how to block their dirty, ugly, foul minds.
Still there were voices, but little more than background chatter. She could ignore them, with sufficient concentration. She had been taught very well how to concentrate.
The walls had only ever come down when she was with Al. She did not mind their absence then. She could feel the warm glow of his love for her, for all their people. She could sense his concerns and his fears for the future, but that was what came with leadership. More than once she had wished she were stronger than a mere P5, and better able to help him.
He had smiled at these thoughts. "You are perfect the way you are," he had said, sweetly and sadly.
So she had learned to compensate for her limited abilities. Skill in infiltration, in disguise, in assassination. But she was a telepath first and foremost. She had learned to use her abilities for the benefit of all her people, setting aside ethics and morality for the greater good.
But the walls were always there.
Not any more.
She wasn't sure if she was still screaming, or if the noise was only in her mind. She was being invaded, a brilliant, blinding light piercing her mind, shattering her barriers completely. Her every thought was there for the reading.
Help us!
Then there were the voices. These were not the little voices of mundanes, but the anguished cries of her own people. She could hear them coming from barred cages. She could feel the fear and the panic within them all. They were bound together, joined by a network of.... of gateways.
They were her people, and they were trapped, able to sense each other, but not to talk. Their bodies were wasting away, but their minds.... they were being harnessed.
Help us!
She shuddered, recognising that voice. It was Matt, Matthew Stoner. Her husband. The two of them had been married by the Corps some years ago in the hope of producing powerful children, until a radiation accident had made him sterile. He had disappeared last year, his ship having gone missing.
She had thought him dead. This was worse.
Help us!
All the voices suddenly died, caught in a choking scream. The light was there now, all of it, washing them out, cutting her off from them.
<Not yet,> said a voice, firm and booming, secure in complete mastery.
She opened her eyes, her mind returning to her body. She felt sick. She was shaking. Desperately she tried to stretch her head to see where she was. Vines held her body down. They seemed to be.... growing around her. She could feel a soft throbbing where they touched her bare skin, almost like a pulse.
She tried to look around her. She was lying down, tightly bound. The rest of the room seemed.... cold, sterile. A laboratory of some kind. She did not know where....
Someone came into view. She could hear the sound of his footsteps. She strained still further to see who it was, but then a vine slid around her neck and pulled her back. Gasping for air, nearly choking, she sank back. Dots flashed in front of her eyes, and all she could see was a man wearing gloves and a white coat and.... some sort of mask....
A syringe. Her body tensed, but to her surprise the scientist did not inject it into her, but into the vines around her. They seemed to relax, and then a slow drowsiness spread through Talia's body. She blinked, and tried to reach out with her mind to touch the scientist.
No voices. No sound at all.
She....
.... tried to keep....
.... her eyes....
.... open....
She closed her eyes, and blackness and dark dreams and the anguished voices of her people, trapped and bound, awaited her.
* * * * * * *
Primarch Sinoval the Accursed reached down to touch his pike. Something within its cold metal grew warm at his touch, enough even for him to feel it through his glove. With a flash of insight he could see the Well of Souls, the countless sparks of light stretching outwards into infinity. He could feel the intelligence there, guiding him.... to the creation of Stormbringer.
And perhaps to here.
Destiny. He had never believed in it. He made his own destiny. But he could feel the endless patience of the Well of Souls. He could sense the.... feelings of.... inevitability.... For so long the Well had been waiting. For him, for a Primarch Nominus et Corpus. There had been one before, one who had come to an ill-fated end.
For one brief moment, Sinoval felt the first spark of self-doubt in his entire life. Maybe.... maybe all the warnings should be heeded. Maybe he should listen to the Primarch, go to the Well and seek its counsel. Maybe he should talk to Kats. He had never heard her give him any advice that was less than perfect.
Then he saw the Vorlon enter the vast chamber of the Starfire Wheel, and his resolve hardened. These creatures had killed Delenn, they had tainted Sheridan, they had enslaved his people here.
It would die, and from its soul he would learn all he needed to know.
It was tall, its encounter suit jet black, the light seeming to slide from it. Its eye stalk was long and slender, a tiny, gleaming, golden light at its heart. Beneath the dark suit Sinoval could.... feel something. He could see its soul, a precious thing. He could feel the Well of Souls looking at the Vorlon through his eyes.
Just beside the Vorlon stood Sherann. She had stopped, hesitating as it crossed the boundary. Her eyes betrayed her concern, but she did not move. Sinoval almost smiled. There was true bravery there.
He walked forward, making each step as firm and proud as he could. He was a warrior and a leader of warriors. This was his world, and these his people. He slid his pike from his belt and extended it, in one smooth motion.
He was not afraid. He was a warrior.
He stopped, standing directly in front of the Starfire Wheel. It was not open yet; it would not open until all was ready. He could feel the Soul Hunters here, hidden deep in the shadows. They had prepared well. They had had ample time to prepare. The Primarch was here as well. To him fell the most important task, that of capturing the Vorlon's soul.
The Vorlon hesitated, and then, with a twitch of its eye stalk and a brief, mocking gleam of light, it stepped forward. Sherann followed it hesitantly. It crossed a faint, undrawn line as it moved. It did not notice, nor did Sherann, but Sinoval did.
"I welcome you to this place," said Sinoval, his voice commanding. "I am the leader here."
There was a hiss of contemptuous breath from the Vorlon, and a sound like that of dead men's bones beating on shields of stone. <No,> came the voice.
Sinoval smiled, and raised Stormbringer. A near-imperceptible signal was sent.
There was a flurry of motion, and the floor became alive with power. A part of the power that guided Cathedral, the very power of the Well of Souls focussed on one being. The floor around the Vorlon crackled and blazed. There was the sound of rending and ripping as its encounter suit began to crack.
Sinoval could feel the Well of Souls watching intently. There was no sound, no warning, nothing but a still silence. Not even the breathing of the dead could be heard.
Sinoval darted forward, Stormbringer raised. In a practised, skilful motion, he hammered the end of his pike into the Vorlon's chest. There was a crack as of bones shattering, and the Vorlon stumbled back. Its eye stalk rose and began to fill with light, the same light now pouring from holes in the armour. It was bright, so bright as to be almost blinding.
<No!> boomed the voice of the Vorlon, as Sinoval felt a blast of sheer, focussed anger tear into him. He brought Stormbringer down in time, but still he was thrown backwards, stumbling and nearly falling over a step. As he struggled to right himself he saw the Vorlon's encounter suit opening. It was riddled with holes and rents, and light could be seen blazing from each one.
<No,> it said again, as the light began to coalesce into one form. Sinoval staggered, clutching Stormbringer as a drowning man clutches a float. He straightened his stance, and made to step forward.
Something within the light turned, mists and colour formed a head, a face, a torso. It was a Minbari, robed in smoke, with eyes of mirrors. It looked at Sinoval, and in its eyes he saw himself.
<You thought to defy us,> it said, although the words came not from its mouth but from the air itself. <You thought yourself superior to us, who have walked the galaxy since your race crawled beneath the rocks.>
The light was continuing to coalesce. Great wings emerged from the figure's back, long and fiery, the air crackling around them.
An arm formed, and then another.
<You thought to challenge us.... here!>
One of the hands clenched into a fist, and a long, curved sword appeared in it.
The encounter suit, now empty and dead, crumpled in pieces on the ground.
<We have always been here. We are not afraid.>
Sinoval took another step forward. His ribs hurt and his breath came in short gasps, but his eyes were as cold and hard as they had ever been. He saw himself reflected in the Vorlon image's own eyes, and he saw there a true warrior, one who has never feared death, one who has never thought of relinquishing the bridge to let his enemies pass, one who has never known fear of the dark places.
He took another step forward.
* * * * * * *
Like most people, Captain Walker Smith of the EAS Marten had a dream. In his case, the dream was to be the World Boxing Champion, a dream nurtured since the day his father had taken him to a fight and he had seen the legendary 'Baron' Boshears take the title for the first time. Smith had looked at his father with all the complete sincerity a five-year-old could muster and said he would hold that belt some day.
He'd never managed it, of course. Sporting events had been pretty much terminated during the Minbari War, and it was only in the last few years that they had got started again, a baseball season first, then some athletic tournaments. They were working on bringing boxing back, but it didn't matter. Smith was an entirely different person now, and in his own way he was fighting just as hard as he would have in the ring, but against a completely different opponent.
He rubbed at his eyes. He hadn't slept well last night. Actually, he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of decent nights' sleep he'd ever had on this ship. Oh, the Marten was a damned fine battleship, fast, strong, packing a hell of a punch, but it was a nice place to visit, not to live in.
Something about the ship bugged him. Something just felt.... wrong. Still, he supposed he was lucky he was actually in charge of something like this. The Marten had been cutting-edge until the Dark Thunder and the De'Molay had rolled off the production lines. He remembered drunkenly teasing Captain Barns about his new promotion, while Barns was still sitting around flying a desk. Barns had simply shrugged, and said he could wait. Looked like it had been worth the wait for him as well.
Smith did not envy him. Reports had it that the Dark Thunder contained more Shadowtech than the Marten, the Corinthian and the Morningstar put together. He did not want to imagine what it would be like inside such a ship.
"Captain," said one of the techs, interrupting his reverie. This was just a routine patrol, and nothing interesting had happened for days. It was a political thing really, help to protect Beta Durani as a visible sign to the colonists there that R'Gov hadn't forgotten them, and that the area was perfectly safe for more industry and businesses et cetera et cetera.
The Marten was far from the only protection Beta Durani had. A Shadow squadron could be here in less than ten seconds if anything hostile showed up. Okay, make that twenty seconds. But the Marten was a visible presence to reassure people, and it was crewed by humans, brave soldiers giving their lives for others and so on....
"Yeah? What is it?"
"One of our hyperspace probes has just been destroyed. No, make that two."
"What? Collision with débris, you think?"
"No.... I don't think so. One of them managed to get a partial signal out before it was hit. On screen now."
The silhouette was less than clear, but it seemed to be of a ship, a medium-class vessel about a quarter of the size of the Marten, perhaps a little smaller. It was a shape Smith didn't recognise.
"Not very clear," he said, shifting the angle of the image.
"No," admitted the tech. "Maybe it is débris after all."
"No. Which Starfury squadron is out at the moment?"
"Alpha."
"Good. Better prep squadrons Omega and Lambda as well. We might need them." He sat back in his seat, pondering to himself. Then the tech spoke up again.
"Captain, jump points opening. Lots of them!"
Smith breathed out slowly. Just like being in the ring. The same rules applied. Keep your guard up, hit him when he wasn't looking, in places he wasn't blocking. Bide your time, and don't make any stupid mistakes.
The only difference here was all the other lives he held in his hand.
"Battle stations," he said.
* * * * * * *
The roar of beating wings filled his ears. The brilliance of its light seared his eyes. The fury in its voice cried at him.
There was a rush of air as the Vorlon seraph swept down on Sinoval. He held Stormbringer ready, and managed to duck just as it passed him. With an effortless motion the Vorlon's sword of air and light drew a bloody line across his arm. Then, glorying in its triumph, it soared up into the heights of the room, wings beating slowly, mirror eyes gazing on everything it saw.
It knew the Soul Hunters were here. It could not fail to know that, but in its arrogance it assumed they were no threat to him.
And they were not, at least not in any way it could foresee. Their purpose here was three-fold; to channel the energy from Cathedral that had shattered the encounter suit, to further manipulate that energy to prevent the Vorlon escaping, and to seize its soul when it died.
Slowly at first, but gathering more speed and power, the Vorlon angel, the Vorlon seraph, ducked and began to dive down. Sinoval threw himself aside, wincing as the hard stone floor bruised his flesh. He rolled and leapt to his feet, moving nearer and nearer to the Starfire Wheel.
Once more the Vorlon soared towards the ceiling. It hovered there, radiating its glory on those beneath it.
Sinoval wondered idly if the Soul Hunters saw something different in its façade. To him it had taken the form of one of the ancient Gods of war, from the time many thousands of years before Valen. The warriors had called upon the aid of the Seraphim against their enemies, and sometimes that aid had come.
A greater anger burned within Sinoval. How long had they been manipulating his people? For just how long had they been Gods and angels and heroes to the Minbari? They claimed to have ascended to the galaxy when the Minbari were still crawling beneath rocks.
The Vorlon plummeted, the air rushing around its form. This was the time. Sinoval braced himself, looking directly into the mirror eyes of the angel. He could see himself there, a warrior standing firm against the assault of his enemies.
The Vorlon's sword pierced his shoulder at the same moment Stormbringer tore into its arm. Sinoval felt an agonising pain and he stumbled, crying out as the sword was pulled out of his flesh, spilling his own burning blood with it. The Vorlon itself seemed to be unharmed.
Sinoval knew better. This was not their natural form, and it could not maintain it for long. This was not their natural environment, and with the encounter suit destroyed it would have no way to replenish the energy expended in this façade. The angel might be a mere creation of light and air and mirrors, but somewhere beneath it there was a real, living, breathing creature. Anything that lived could be killed.
Once more the Vorlon rose to the ceiling, readying itself for another charge. It seemed to be flying a little slower than before. Was it hurt? Tired? Drained? Stormbringer was forged with Sinoval's soul, augmented by the subtle influences of the Well of Souls. It could hurt the Vorlon.
There. The Vorlon's wingspan had encroached on the area of the Starfire Wheel. Sinoval smiled, and willed it to open.
The green light crackled in the air as it appeared. There was a sound of burning and a smell such as Sinoval had never encountered before. The Vorlon fell, its wing beginning to collapse. The wings were only constructs of light and air, but the real creature.... was it growing too tired to maintain them?
The Vorlon twisted as it fell, its sword seeming to grow longer and sharper. Sinoval tried to bring Stormbringer up, but he was too late, and only managed to slow the thrust.
The sword ripped into his side, tearing flesh and muscle. Sinoval stumbled, nearly falling. His blood was boiling, burning his flesh, searing his clothes. The Vorlon's sword was burning him, his flesh, his blood, his soul.
He struggled to rise, and as he did so he saw the Vorlon reach out one arm, stretching out the fingers and clenching a fist.
There was a rush of air and an explosion of psionic energy. Sinoval was not a telepath, but even he winced as the backlash tore through him. He felt blood drip from his eyes. He wiped it away and looked up to see what the Vorlon had used its telekinesis for.
The force shield the Soul Hunters had erected, and were now pushing slowly inwards to encircle the Starfire Wheel, had been designed to keep the Vorlon inside, not to keep anyone or anything out.
The Vorlon had reached through the shield and pulled Sherann in. She lay limp, pressed against the angel, held close to it. Its sword, now thick and curved, lay against her throat.
It looked at Sinoval, and in its eyes he could see himself.
<Her life is nothing to us,> it said. <Lay down your blade, or she will die.>
* * * * * * *
Dexter Smith crossed his arms and sat back, wincing at the pain in his side. "So.... what are we going to talk about? Last night's game? The lottery numbers? The latest film news?"
"That's hardly a very co-operative attitude, Mr. Smith."
"Yeah, well, maybe I'm not being very co-operative. You see, being beaten up and locked in a room with only a disembodied voice for company does that to me."
"Ah. I do apologise for the over-zealousness of the guards. That really did have nothing to do with me. And you are not locked in anywhere. You are free to leave at any time. I do not advise it, but I certainly do not compel you to stay."
"Where's Talia?"
"A safe place."
"Answer me! Where is she?"
"Being examined by my doctors. She is quite safe, I assure you."
"I want to see her."
"That is not possible at present. You seem.... forgive me.... rather attached to her. Are the two of you.... romantically involved?"
"What? No!"
"Ah, forgive my lack of manners. Sometimes the only way to gain pertinent information is to ask impertinent questions. A sad necessity of modern life I am afraid, and I like it no more than you do. However, it is necessary. Would you like there to be a romantic involvement with Miss Winters?"
"She's with someone. They have a kid."
"Ah, yes. Mr. Bester. A rather.... special collection of telepaths he has there. Do you think he plans on adding to it?"
"What do you mean?"
"You have telepathic DNA, do you not? Your mother was a telepath? Your young niece has recently been found to be a P four."
"I don't have...." He paused. He supposed he might have a niece. He hadn't spoken to his sister in years. He'd thought she was dead. "What of it? I'm probably not even a P one."
"Something in that region.... but your children might well be telepaths, especially if the mother was a telepath herself, such as Miss Winters for example."
"What is this? Some sort of telepath breeding programme you're running here?"
"Oh, no. Quite the opposite. I have spent my entire life working against telepaths. They have a.... natural, innate advantage over the rest of us. A quite unfair advantage, wouldn't you say? How can we hide our secrets any longer? We are all vulnerable to telepaths, each and every one of us. Maybe the Corps controlled them, although personally I do not believe that. But now the Corps as we knew it is gone, sacrificed on the altar of necessity. These are desperate times, Mr. Smith, and they breed desperate men. Can you imagine the damage that can be done by a desperate telepath?
"No, order is necessary in the midst of all this chaos. Telepaths are uniquely chaotic beings, but with appropriate order they can be.... controlled, harnessed for the greater good. My humble operation here has been aimed at doing just that."
"How do you control them?"
"Ah, that would be telling. I am afraid I am not at liberty to divulge that information. They are.... safe, I will say that, and no threat to any of us."
"So why are you telling me all this?"
"Oh, a number of reasons. Partly to try to convince you to call off your little crusade against my organisation. We are not the enemy, we are merely people trying to do what we can to benefit humanity."
"And is letting Sector Three-o-one become a sink of corruption benefiting humanity?"
"Sector Three-o-one has always been a place filled with corruption, Mr. Smith. You of all people should know that. It is a sad and lamentable fact of human nature that the weaker will always be shoved aside. Sector Three-o-one is the sort of place they are shoved to. If we cleaned up the place, the corruption there would only move elsewhere. Sad, yes, but the truth."
"What Trace and Allan are doing is wrong.... and you're letting them do it."
"Is not a little wrong permitted in the name of a greater good? Is not.... for example, the breaking of a promise, of a trust, permissible if the purpose is worthwhile?" Smith scowled. "I know your history, Mr. Smith. You have interested me for a long time. I did actually try to contact you after your return from Earthforce, but alas I was unable to do so.
"I would like to offer you a place in my organisation."
Smith laughed. "You're not serious. You've just spent half an hour telling me telepaths are evil and that I'm one of them, and now you want me to join you?"
"You are a telepath, yes, but you cannot read minds, you cannot ferret out thoughts and secrets. You are merely very intuitive, a skill that many 'normal' people are perfectly capable of learning."
"I'm also a wanted murderer, or did you forget about that?"
"Oh, you needn't join my organisation in any public capacity. I was hoping for quite the reverse, in fact. Anyway, I will speak to some people and have the charges against you dropped. And against Miss Winters, if you like. There, you see.... corruption can be a good thing, if used wisely."
"I've yet to be convinced of that. What if I say no?"
"I will be disappointed of course, but you will be free to leave. The charges against you will still be dropped, and you will be at perfect liberty to change your mind at any point."
"And if I choose to keep fighting Trace and Allan?"
"That would be.... unfortunate, for both of us."
"If.... If I agree to join you...."
"Yes."
"Will you let Talia go? And stop Trace from hurting the people of Sector Three-o-one?"
"Mr. Trace is his own man. He is not really a member of my organisation, merely a.... freelance agent. As for Miss Winters.... if it will convince you of my sincerity she may go, but.... one thing first. Are you absolutely certain she does not use her abilities.... wrongly? Give me your word that she will not misuse her telepathic powers."
"I give it."
"Ah.... well then. I will.... allow you a chance to change your mind. Miss Winters will be kept safe here. She will be treated well, I assure you, and I will detain her only for so long as is necessary to verify your claims. If I find them to be true, she will be released. Are these terms.... acceptable to you?"
"No, but it looks like they're all I have."
"They are."
"Well then, I am free to go?"
"Then you will not join me?"
"Show me that Talia is safe, and I will."
"Ah.... then you are free to go. When I release Miss Winters, if of course I do, then I will contact you so that we may discuss the terms of your.... employment. The guards outside will escort you safely and secretly out of this sector. As I said, all charges against you will be dropped, and you may return to your old apartment if you wish.
"Good day, Mr. Smith. Please do not take too long making up your mind. Events are bearing down heavily on us all, and we may not have much time."
* * * * * * *
Sherann twitched, and a soft moan escaped her as she recovered from the shock of her telekinetic flight across the chamber. She opened her eyes, and then the realisation of her situation seemed to hit her.
Sinoval looked at her, and then up at the Vorlon. The illusion of its form was beginning to fade. It had not bothered to regrow its damaged wing, and it had dissolved the other. Its legs were ill-formed, and it now seemed to be floating on a cloud of glowing light. Its sword was still held tightly at Sherann's throat.
<Her life is nothing to us. Lay down your blade.>
Sinoval drew in a deep breath and clenched his grip on Stormbringer. His body was burning, the wounds in his shoulder and side eating away at him. He took a slow, faltering step forward, wincing at each breath. His grip on his pike tightened.
The Starfire Wheel was still open. He could feel the warmth of its radiation. The Vorlon was not within its radius, having fallen just outside it. There were minutes yet before it reached its full, deadly potential.
He looked at Sherann again. Her eyes were flat, expectant, unafraid.
"I can see her soul," Sinoval whispered, looking up to the Vorlon. "It is a beautiful thing, a creation of wonder and hope and love. I envy you, my lady.
"I can see her soul.... and I can see yours. I can taste your fear, Vorlon. I can feel your hatred, and I am not afraid of either. I would drown this world in blood if it meant destroying you and all your kind. There is nothing I would not do, no one I would not kill, nothing I would not forsake or betray or abandon...."
He grasped Stormbringer tightly. It seemed to tremble.
He looked at Sherann, and saw the faintest trace of an unshed tear in her eye. "I am sorry, my lady," he said, his voice thick. "This world was never meant for one such as you."
He moved forward, a motion he had practised and performed countless times. The Vorlon made no effort to stop him, it could not have done so even had it wanted to. The pike struck Sherann, her eyes filled with blood, and her dead body crumpled.
The Vorlon dropped her to the ground and said two simple words, a reminder of a warning Sinoval had been given, but had forgotten.
<Innocent blood.>
At last, he realised. He had doomed himself. He had shed the blood of an innocent on sanctified ground. There could be only one fate for him now.
And the Vorlon had known this. It had known how he would react. It had planned this all along. If it could not destroy him by force of arms or by physical strength or by skill or valour in combat, it would use guile. It would force Sinoval to destroy himself. It would make him kill one of his own.
With a roar filled with fury and passion and anger and hatred, Sinoval threw himself forward. Stormbringer crashed into the face of the Vorlon, knocking it back. A second blow thudded into the midriff of the angel, but it made no effort to block it.
The Vorlon was beginning to drop its image now. It had no need of one, and the illusion was evidently becoming too onerous to support. It was becoming a mass of light and energy, flailing tentacles reaching out.
Sinoval followed the Vorlon into the confines of the Starfire Wheel, and the Soul Hunters, acting on his instructions, not fully realising what had just happened, closed the force shield behind them. Neither of them could leave the Starfire Wheel now, not until the energies of the Wheel had been dissipated. Oh, the Vorlon could have broken down the barrier with enough force and effort, but it had no need to. Sinoval had doomed himself. He would die here. He would never leave the holy ground he had desecrated with the blood of an innocent.
Still, he paid no heed to that. The air around him was crackling with the radiation of the Wheel and the thrashing of the Vorlon. There was pain, but Sinoval did not care. He had felt pain before. He kept hammering Stormbringer into the form of the Vorlon, striking out at the mass of light.
Then the Vorlon seemed to turn, whipping round. It had no face any longer, but Sinoval could tell it was looking at him. One tentacle lashed out and smashed his body against the force shield. A second took his arm and pulled Stormbringer out of his grasp, hurling it away. The force wall parted as it flew into the shadows in the corner of the chamber.
The Starfire Wheel continued to slide open. Sinoval could feel himself beginning to burn. Another blow pounded into the side of his head and he slumped to his knees, blood pouring from his eyes and ears and mouth.
The Wheel slid open another notch.
* * * * * * *
The Marten was alone in space against a sizeable Dark Star fleet for all of a few minutes. In those few minutes, Captain Smith had hastily alerted the Beta Durani defence grid, which was still fairly new, and warned the civilian authorities.
The Starfury squadrons were launched, the weapons crews prepared, and the ship set in a defensive position, waiting.
They did not have to wait long.
--- Beta Durani, this is the Dark Star fleet, from the United Alliance of Kazomi Seven. You are to surrender to the Alliance, stand down all military forces, and submit to Alliance officials regarding preparations for a war crimes tribunal. If you fail to do this we will respond with deadly force. ---
"Cocky, aren't they?" muttered Walker to himself.
"There are a lot of them, sir," said the tech. "Much more than there are of us."
"Not for long," he said, smiling. "Did the Governor get the message?"
"Yes, she's.... instructing you to hold them off for as long as possible."
"I could have thought of that."
--- Beta Durani, failure to reply within two minutes will be construed as a refusal. ---
Walker rolled his eyes. "Any chance of them getting a move on?" The ships, the Dark Stars, were coming closer. He glanced at the specs the Shadowtech computers had been able to analyse. For some reason the computer was taking great exception to them, and a large amount of stuff was coming out really weird. What he could see did not fill him with confidence, though.
--- Beta Durani, you have one minute. ---
"Come on. Are the Starfuries launched?"
"Squadron Omega is launched, Squadron Lambda launching now. Squadron Gamma preparing to launch. Should we give the order to fire?"
"Nope. For the moment, we wait.... and hope our friends weren't exaggerating when they said how fast they can get here."
--- Beta Durani, your time is up. ---
The Marten seemed to come alive, something twinkling in its instruments and surfaces. Walker smiled, as all around it Shadow battleships shimmered into view.
"A little more even, now. Give the order to fire."
"Yes, sir."
* * * * * * *
Somewhere in the shadows, an ancient being was watching the final stages of the fight play themselves out. He saw Sinoval's body strike the force shield, saw it slump and fall, saw the fire that had always burned so brightly begin to burn out.
The Primarch Majestus et Conclavus of the Order of the Soul Hunters stepped into the light. He flicked a glance at another of his order, who straightened at his gaze. "You know what to do?"
The Fhedayar Primus Adjunct Secundus nodded. He was one of the finest hunters in the Order, but even the lowest neophyte could have performed this task. First One or child, the procedure was the same. The soul was the same, a burst of life, an animation of the prison of flesh and bone, a sentience that would otherwise be lost forever to the cold grasp of death.
The Primarch walked forward, feeling the weight of his untold millennia of life. He had known this moment would come. The Well of Souls had spoken to him. He had tried to warn Sinoval, but of course the warning had not been heeded.
No one could fight his destiny. The older one was, the more inevitable it became.
He reached the boundary of the Starfire Wheel. Even through the shield he could feel the crackling heat in the air. He raised his hands, and the wall fell.
Sinoval's body, now with nothing to support it, slumped and rolled to the floor. The Vorlon, its energy form now equally unrestrained, began to thrash and ascend, rising towards the ceiling, spreading its tentacles of light and energy.
The Primarch took a moment to ensure that Sinoval's body was clear of the circumference of the Starfire Wheel. It was wider now than it had been. He could feel the air burning, tiny bolts of lightning filling the void around his body of flesh.
The Vorlon swished, and turned to face the Primarch. It said two words.
<Innocent blood.>
"I know the law," said the Primarch softly. "But I know other laws as well, older laws. The doom of innocent blood can be averted, if one who is also innocent accepts the death that is the price of the doom."
The Vorlon paused, its energy-body hesitating.
<No!> it said, understanding coming at last. It made to flee the circle of the Wheel.
But too late.
The Primarch stepped forward, into the Wheel. His hands crackling with power, he turned the Well of Souls on the Vorlon. A billion voices overwhelmed it, the voices of its ancestors, the voices of the ancestors of the entire galaxy.
The Primarch dropped his shell of mortal flesh, and became what he had been ever since he had taken custody of Cathedral and the awesome burden and responsibility it bore. He became the physical focus of the sentience that was the Well of Souls.
The Starfire Wheel slid open its final notch. There was a blaze of energy, the Vorlon cried out....
And Cathedral welcomed home its Primarch, allowing him to rest at last.
* * * * * * *
Mr. Welles was a man who understood all too well the ways and means of manipulating people. He could do this on a large scale, to a crowd, or a mob, or even the entire public; and he could do it to a small group, or individuals. He was not especially proud of these skills, but they had served humanity well enough in the past. He had served a necessary purpose in the Resistance Government, and there had been a time - he could not remember when, but surely there had been such a time - when he had been working towards some goal that could be considered 'good'.
Not any more. He had watched his Government fall apart. He had never had many friends. He had no children. The number of people who had ever understood him was limited, and most of these were gone.
He preferred to remain in his office as much as possible. He didn't like his apartment. It wasn't that it was too small, or too dingy or poorly furnished. Indeed not, he was eligible for free accommodation in some of the best areas on Proxima.
It was just that when he was at home, he was not at his job. He was a real person at home, and he could feel the eyes of his dead wife on him whenever he was there. He had burned every picture he had of her, but still he could feel her there.
But when he was at work, she could not find him. He was a different person when he was at work, and so she could not see him. As a result he made a point of spending as much time at work as possible. His staff interpreted that as workaholism, and he made no attempt to correct the assumption.
For the last few days, ever since he had received the message from Ambassador Sheridan, he had felt the eyes of another always upon him, and she could find him wherever he was. He could not burn everything he had of hers. He could not try to forget her, because she was not a part of his personal life, she was a part of his job, and he could no longer keep them separate.
He walked down the corridor, trying to steel himself for this. He habitually spent a great deal of time preparing each interview and meeting. Initial interviews were always important, and he devoted even more time to them. He never went to a meeting without all the facts and information he would need. Whether he was meeting the leader of the human race or an alien war criminal, this never changed.
This time, he could not prepare. Anything he did would be washed away by the first sight of her. For the first time he could remember, he went to a meeting completely cold. And this was in all probability the most important meeting he would ever attend. The future of the human race might depend upon it.
He reached the door, and breathed out slowly. Morishi was on guard there. A good man. Efficient.
"She is waiting for you, sir."
"Good. As soon as the door is closed, deactivate all recording equipment, visual and audio. Employ full precautions against listening devices. No one is to enter that room until I leave, for any reason. No one is to try to contact me while I am in that room, for any reason. Not even the President."
Morishi looked troubled. These precautions were not unheard of, but they were rare.
"She will not be able to hurt me," Welles said, in what he hoped was a reassuring voice. "She is secured to her chair?"
"Yes, sir."
"There, you see. She cannot move, and she would be too weak to put up a fight even if she could."
"Yes, sir. Your instructions will be followed."
"Good." Welles turned to the door, and breathed out again. He raised his palm to the scanner and typed in a quick six-digit code. Few people knew it was his wife's date of birth.
The door opened and he stepped inside. The door closed immediately behind him, but he did not notice. As soon as he stepped into the room, Delenn of Mir looked up, and the instant her deep green eyes hit him, he could see nothing else.
* * * * * * *
Consciousness and rational thought returned to Sinoval the instant he heard the Vorlon's cry of one single word.
<No!>
Ignoring the pain of his multitude of injuries he leapt to his feet, momentarily surprised to see himself outside the Starfire Wheel. He looked into it, and saw the Primarch's form change. One moment he was the same tall, old, dignified and wise humanoid being he had always been. A heartbeat later, he was.... many things. He was knowledge, and power, and wisdom, and sorrow, and regret and.... memory.
The Starfire Wheel slid open its final notch, and there was a blaze of light and heat. There was a scream that ended suddenly, and then there was nothing.
There was stillness. The Wheel was closed. Of the Vorlon and the Primarch, there was no sign.
Reeling with what he had just seen, Sinoval turned to the Soul Hunters emerging from the shadows. "Did you catch it?" he asked. The Primarch was.... gone. Sherann was.... dead. This had to have been for something.
"Did you save it?"
One of them, one who looked older than the others, held up a glowing, golden orb. Sinoval could clearly see the thrashing form of the Vorlon within it.
He closed his eyes and sank wearily to the floor, not from the pain of his wounds, but from the realisation of what he had done and what it had cost. He raised his hand and clenched it into a fist, trembling slightly.
Then he opened his eyes and rose, walking to the place where Sherann's body lay. He looked at the terrible wound in her chest, and sighed softly. Her eyes, filled with blood, seemed to be accusing him. He closed them gently, not wishing to see them any longer.
He then turned, and found that all the Soul Hunters, including his guards and the one with the Vorlon's soul....
All of them were kneeling.
"What are you doing?" he asked. Some sort of mourning ritual?
"We are swearing fealty," said the one with the soul globe. "We are swearing fealty to our new Primarch Majestus et Conclavus."