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| Volume 4: A Future, Born in Pain | Part V: The First Footsteps on the Road to Babylon |
SOMEWHERE, in a part of space far from the trade routes, distant from the centres of power and away from the deeds shaping the future of the galaxy, there lies the last refuge of a thousand-year-old war. Like an old warrior sitting in his garden watching the world pass by, Babylon 4 is now retired.
For nine centuries it has been resting, ever since the day that the One Who Was passed beyond. With the end of the first Shadow War Babylon 4 became unnecessary, an anachronism. Enemies of Valen, the same who drove his children from Minbar, sought to downplay his rôle and his actions, and Babylon 4 was a living memory of the man and his deeds.
It is the doom of mortal beings to forget.
And so they forgot Babylon 4. It was taken away from the known worlds and left, abandoned and forsaken. As Valen passed into legend, so did the miracle he had brought with him.
But time is a cycle, nothing truly dies and nothing is ever truly forgotten. Some still live who knew Valen, and who walked the steps of Babylon 4 a thousand years ago. There are some who revere and worship those who did.
Things have changed, the workings of destiny move once more, and slowly the whispers of the past become the present, and the future, as the station that was built by a Narn, threatened by the Shadows and used in battle by the Minbari, becomes once more a focal point in the destinies of empires.
Sinoval looked at the space station, and he did not smile.
* * * * * * *
"You know what must be done?"
There was no verbal reply of course, but the motion of the alien's head was enough. Ambassador Sheridan felt sudden relief, as well as an inexplicable concern that he was doing the wrong thing.
That did not matter. There were times when any action, even the wrong one, was preferable to inaction, and this was one of them. Events were rising to a climax, and now more than ever he and the Shadows needed to be in control of Proxima. He was their representative here, and they had spoken to him, expressed their.... plans.
Clark was crucial. Somehow he had slipped the leash of his Keeper once. That leash had to be re-tightened, but it had to be done properly. None of them could afford another failure. The implantation of a Keeper was usually a simple enough process, the Keeper was after all alive, and did most of the work itself.
This time, however, greater care was necessary. There could be no more mistakes, and so Sheridan had arranged.... assistance.
He knew a little about the Zener. Genetically, they were distantly related to the Vree and the Streib, although some disaster many thousands of years ago had split the three groups apart. The Zener had always been master scientists, particularly adept in the field of genetic engineering, and a scientocracy had arisen where matters of morals and ethics fell far behind the continued pursuit of knowledge.
The Streib had desired to gain this knowledge, and with little of the military might of their genetic cousins it seemed as if the Zener would be conquered, and easily, but then the Shadows arrived, and circumstances changed drastically. The Zener became a part of the Great Compact, swearing to serve the Shadows and their allies, providing all the knowledge at their disposal in exchange for protection.
The Shadows were technologically much more advanced than any of their vassal races, but they had been happy to use the Zener's technology rather than their own. The Zener worked particularly well with the Drakh and together they had achieved a number of advances. The bio-plague that had devastated Minbar was one of these.
None, save perhaps the Shadows themselves, knew better than the Zener how to implant a Keeper. It was they who, wherever possible, carried out the medical examinations prior to implantation and oversaw any problems following the process.
A Drakh stood behind the Zener, watching silently. If he did not know better, Sheridan would have assumed the Drakh to be the scientist's bodyguard. In fact the situation was very different. The Drakh placed all other races into three groups: their Dark Masters; their enemies; and their weapons to serve the first and destroy the second. The Zener were in the third category.
"This is vital," Sheridan repeated. "It must be done as soon as possible, and this must not fail. Do you understand?"
"Understanding," hissed the Drakh. "We shall not fail...."
"Good," Sheridan said. He closed his eyes and saw Clark, and a moment later, he saw his son. John would be coming for Proxima soon, and he would be bringing the Vorlons with him. It was essential that they all do what was necessary to stop this. Clark had to be theirs.
He had to be.
"Then go."
"The Dark Masters will watch us," the Drakh said. "By their will...."
"By their will," Sheridan repeated. Sometimes the Drakh terrified him. Sometimes a great many things terrified him.
* * * * * * *
"What will you need?"
"ID to get into the hospital building, and out again. Preferably an ambulance driver's ID. That will be for Dexter."
"I can get you that. Anything else?"
"A lapse in security around Delenn's ward. Lasting for as long as possible without arousing suspicion."
"I can manage that. I can't remove all the Security presence, as shift changes are staggered. You have the map of the hospital facility?"
"Yes."
"The guards stationed at positions A, C and F are changed at nineteen hundred hours each night. I will be able to arrange for their replacements to be a little late, although fifteen minutes is all. That will leave the guards at B, D, E and G."
"I can get past the ones at B and E, and D is likely to be too far away. That will just leave the two at G, Delenn's bedside. I will deal with them."
"Don't kill them! Not unless you absolutely have to. They're good men, and they're just doing their job."
"Obeying orders? Yes, I've heard that before. Don't worry. I don't like killing people. I have.... ways of making them fall asleep. Totally harmless."
"Good. You're going in tonight?"
"Can we leave it another day?"
"No. Delenn's condition is improving.... slightly. She's now conscious and aware for longer and longer periods of time. Clark's on at me to get her back to the interrogation chamber. It has to be tonight. I'll see you get the relevant IDs and computer codes as soon as possible."
"Good. You won't need to contact us to find out if this has worked. You'll know. Get in touch again this time tomorrow, if it does. You can then take her off our hands and arrange the payment."
"Will do. Good luck."
"We shouldn't need luck."
Welles had completed the first part of his promise at least. ID codes confirming Talia as a physician's assistant and Dexter as an ambulance driver arrived by some unknown courier less than an hour after the message had concluded. Also included were details of all the pass codes and computer codes necessary.
Talia had made her share of false IDs in her time, and these certainly looked as if they would work.
As to whether Welles had been successful in delaying the security changes, that would have to wait. She had taken care to memorise the map of the hospital complex, and she and Dexter had gone over the plan until he could recite it in his sleep. She was still sceptical about this whole endeavour, but Welles had been telling the truth, and Dexter had talked her into it.
Besides, the reward offered was certainly worthwhile.
And now they had accepted the mission, she devoted her every effort to completing it.
She checked her watch. 18:52. Perfect. The shifts at point C would be changing soon. She could get past them on the way in, assuming Welles' ID worked, and she should have enough time to get herself and Delenn out before the changeover occurred.
One of the guards stepped forward to her. "ID?" She passed the card over to him, and he ran it through his security device. The other guard looked at her closely. She was breathing quietly and standing naturally, as though this were a routine she had gone through a hundred times before.
"Checks out," said the guard, handing her back the card.
"I don't recognise you," said the other.
"I normally work at the Ellison Building in Sector Two-o-nine," she replied glibly. "They're short-handed over here tonight, so I was called in to help out."
The guard looked a little suspicious, but then nodded. "In you go."
Talia passed through the first checkpoint, into the hospital complex itself. She kept her breathing under control, reliving the map of the layout in her mind. She could see every corridor, every turn and corner and room. Every security checkpoint.
And she could see her final destination. The room where Delenn herself lay.
Full of determination, Talia headed on her way.
* * * * * * *
Sinoval had seen many wonders in his life, images that would stay with him forever. The huge archway that led to the Well of Souls; the sight of Earth beneath his feet, lost and helpless; the vision of Valen in the Dreaming as Varmain had died.
All of these paled before the simple wonder on the face of a madman and a betrayer.
Marrain walked slowly through the hallway, his eyes alight. As Sinoval looked around, he saw nothing but a decaying and barren relic of an ancient war, left in a forsaken place to die. He remembered the last time he had been here, seeing a tiny ray of hope in this place. It had changed greatly since then. Although only a year or so had passed for him, an entire millennium had gone by for this station.
He saw nothing but rust and decay and the erosion of a once-mighty fortress, but then he supposed he had no romance in his soul.
For Marrain, it was something else.
"It was here," he whispered, looking around. "Here, we met Valen.... and just over there a Shadow Warrior attacked us. It had got on board somehow and Parlonn and I.... we fought it back to back. It slashed my chest open, and left a scar...."
He paused. There would be no scar, of course. Not on this body. It was not his after all. It was a dead body, infused with a soul departed more than nine centuries.
"They are dead now. Everyone. Valen, Derannimer, Parlonn, Nukenn.... Even Nemain and Mannamann. They were both so young then. Dead for centuries now.
"All dead.... save the two of us." He looked into the shadows. "I, the Betrayer, and Anla'Verenn-veni. The Place Of Restored Dreams. That was what we called it. A priestling name of course, but.... an apt one.... even for a hardened warrior like myself."
He closed his eyes, his body shaking. "Where are your dreams now, Anla'Verenn-veni? Where are your glories, your triumphs, your holy places? Lost and gone to the three winds, all of them. Dead, dead, dead....
"All is dead. All lives and all dies, and all decays and withers."
His eyes opened, and a fierce darkness burned from within him. He pointed at Sinoval. "You will die." And then at Kats. "And you.... I can see it in you, past the façade of your beauty, beyond the mask you create for yourself, beneath the illusions and the masquerades....
"There is only death.
"But not for me," he added plaintively. "All die, but Marrain, the Betrayer."
"All die," Sinoval said firmly, looking at Kats. She was shaken, but firm. He heard her whispering a soft prayer under her breath, and he suddenly realised why. For an instant, in Marrain's rant, she would have seen Kalain, her torturer. He reached out a hand to steady her, but she pulled away. Her eyes flashed a brief thanks to him.
"We all die, even Marrain, the Betrayer. Do as we have spoken, and your death shall be an honourable one."
"What is honour to the dead? Do you think Parlonn cares that I gave my honour to save his? No, he is dead, his body and bones dust in a distant world. Do you think Derannimer's dead carcass cared that I loved her? No, she is gone.
"All are gone."
"But there are those who live now, Marrain. The now is all we have, all you have. You have been given another chance at life, an opportunity to undo the mistakes you made before.
"Are you ready to grasp that chance, Marrain? Because if you are not, then there is nothing here for you, and you might as well become the dead bones you speak of."
"No," Marrain whispered after a time. "I live, and I will do as you have asked of me. It will be.... interesting to see them again. I wonder how much they have changed, how much they remember, how much they have forgotten."
"Apparently they are much the same as they were in your day, but we shall see."
"Why this place?" Marrain asked suddenly. "Why.... bring us all back here? This does not belong in this age. It is a part of the past, the legends of long ago."
"It is the one place I can be sure they will recognise and come to. It is as holy a place for them as it is for us, and they cannot deny its call. Besides, you will be stronger here, in this place where you once walked.... before."
"Yes. I walked here once. Come.... their shrine was.... this way. I think. I remember the day Zarwin built it. It was the last day he was here, the day they were banished."
Marrain looked at the corridors before him, and began to walk. Slowly Sinoval followed him, Kats a few steps behind. Around them all, hidden in the shadows but still there, were the guards. The two Praetors Tutelary, who guarded their Primarch with their lives, and nine of the Primarch's Blades, led by Lanniel. They were sworn to protect Sinoval and, although unknown to her, Kats as well.
Sinoval looked at her, wishing not for the first time that he had been able to persuade her to remain behind on Tarolin 2.
"I will go with you." She had said those words calmly and dispassionately, yet he understood the strength behind them.
"You should remain here. It will be.... dangerous."
"I have faced danger before."
"I did not say you had not, my lady, but this.... will not be easy, not even for me. Marrain is strong and dedicated, but he is also insane. I can hope only to appeal to whatever remains of the man he was before love and hatred drove him mad. He is unpredictable and may take it upon himself to hurt you."
"If he is so dangerous, then why include him in this?"
"Because if he does remember who he was, then he and he alone will be able to do what I require of him. I will not be able to do that, nor will you, nor Lanniel, nor Durhan, nor any Soul Hunter or Vindrizi. Only he.
"Besides, all of us, no matter how heinous our crimes, deserve one single chance for redemption."
"Does that include Kozorr?"
"My lady.... I promised I would do all I could to restore him to you, yes.... but that may not be easy, or even possible."
"You brought Marrain here because only he could do what you need. Only I can bring Kozorr back. You cannot, and you know that. Nor can Marrain, or Lanniel, or anyone else. He loves me, and it was because of that he turned to them."
"My lady...."
"I love him! If he comes to the trap you have set, as we both know he will.... then I will be able to talk to him, to.... show him what he has done, to explain to him.... He must know, he must be made to understand. Only I can do that."
"He is luckier than he knows, my lady. I do not doubt your courage, I do not even doubt your love. I doubt only my ability to protect you."
"Please.... do not doubt my ability to protect myself."
"We are here," said Marrain, snapping Sinoval back to the present. He looked at the room before him, trying to remember if he had been here during his last stay on Babylon 4. He did not think so, but then he had been there for only a few days.
This room must have been a storage chamber of some kind, but it had been changed from that purpose to another. A shrine. Sinoval looked at the makeshift altar, and the markings just above it. They spelled out letters in a very old dialect he was largely unfamiliar with, but this one word he could recognise.
"Z'ondar," he whispered softly.
"Zarwin built this. He crafted it himself, intending to make this place the holiest of all for his people. Valen cast him and his people aside the same day, fighting the remainder of the war without them.
"Is it any wonder they fell into darkness?"
"And now we will bring them back to the light," Sinoval said softly. "All we need do is let them know where we are, and wait for them to come to us."
"Oh, they will come," Marrain said, his eyes sparkling. "They will come to reclaim their holy place, and then....
"There will be death. Death, death and only death until there is nothing but the soft, light footfalls of the slain.
"Death...."
* * * * * * *
"I told you never to come here!"
Lord-General Marrago, of the great and glorious Centauri Republic, was renowned for many things. One of these things was his calm and peace of mind. Not for him the ranting and raving and furiously shouted orders of some leaders. In battle he was always marked by calm and equilibrium. 'A general who plans in anger will lead his men only to their deaths,' he had once commented.
He was angry now, his initial shock having faded in an admirably short time.
"What if someone had seen you?"
"Your guards.... are blind and stupid," the Drakh hissed, stepping forward into the light. "They did not see me."
"I still told you never to come here. I would contact you, remember? Not the other way around."
"Arrogant are you.... to think you can control the Dark Masters. They control you, and I am here to remind you of that."
"No one controls me. We had a deal. One battle, that was it. They would help us for one battle. We need them no longer."
"Price there was for that one battle."
"And as I said, I will pay it. But how can I do that when the.... artefact has not been delivered to me?"
"It has been delivered to another. She received it today.... She will perform this task for us."
A chill swept through the Lord-General, as he knew of whom the Drakh spoke. His kutari raised, he darted forward, and the Drakh met him impassively.
"Of little worth is my life. Honour it is to die serving the Masters."
"You will leave my daughter alone! She was not a part of any of this."
"Now she is. Sought to protect her you did, but no one and nothing can be hidden well enough from Masters. Remember that. She returns here now.... to fulfill your side of the deal."
"No! She is not part of this."
"Yes.... The Masters willed it so."
"Then we are done. Lyndisty will deliver this.... package to the place you specified, and then we are done. We will never meet again."
"If the Masters will it, we shall meet again." The Drakh gently placed an object on the table. It was black and shining, a million tiny sparkles of light coming from deep beneath the surface. It was an orb. "When you need them.... touch this and think the words. They will come.
"And another price there will be paid."
"I told you. One battle, one favour. That is all."
"We know truth. We know necessity. Masters know all. Consider values greatly, soldier. Lives of those you lead.... against bargain with Masters." The Drakh walked forward and pushed past Marrago. He made no effort to stop it leaving.
"If I see any of your kind here again," the Lord-General snapped, "I'll kill you all."
"Honour to die serving the Masters it is. Proud to die in their cause would I be. Not afraid of death am I. Your daughter.... she would be, yes?"
The Drakh then left, and Marrago looked at the black orb resting on his table. He wanted to destroy it, to hurl it against the wall and watch it shatter into a million pieces.
He put it in a drawer, and went to contact Lyndisty.
* * * * * * *
Talia was not afraid. She had been thoroughly trained in defeating fear. It was a survival instinct, that was all, a hangover from the days when humans were little better than animals. She was not an animal, she was not even a normal human. She could face her fear, face it and conquer it.
There were mind-calming techniques she had been learning ever since the age of five. As she walked through the sterile, colourless corridors of the hospital facility, she ran them over and over in her mind. Her breathing was calm and natural. Her walk was normal. Her bearing spoke of routine duties, as if she had done this a thousand times. What was necessary was not to look out of place.
She had memorised the map Welles had provided, studied the timetable of the shift changes, the routine day-to-day business of the hospital. She passed through the security checkpoints with no problems. The replacements were delayed as Welles had promised.
Finally she arrived in Delenn's room. It was a normal, private ward room. Normal, that was, save for the two Security officers and the still figure in the bed, surrounded by machinery. Delenn was asleep.
This was the first glimpse Talia had had of Delenn, and she was mildly surprised. She had not been sure what she had been expecting, but it was not this fragile, strangely beautiful mix of human and Minbari. Welles had not told her about what had happened to put Delenn in this place, but she could sense a terrible, terrible sadness in the alien woman's slumber.
Of course it was interrupted by the sight of one of the security guards stepping forward. "ID?" he asked.
Talia handed it over, taking care to make the action as nonchalant as possible. This was a routine inspection, that was all. Purely routine.
"I don't recognise you," said the other one. She risked a quick surface scan. He was suspicious. He was the sort who was naturally suspicious. Slowly, casually, Talia placed her hand behind her back and slid a small device from her sleeve. An electronic jammer, a device that would paralyse the surveillance equipment in here if a fight should prove necessary. Not one of Welles' toys, something she had been able to pick up on the black market.
It was remarkable what could be found if you looked hard enough.
"I'm a transfer from the Ellison Building in two-o-nine," she said, repeating her story. Changing cover stories always led to trouble. "One of the nurses is sick and can't come in." That was true enough. Talia had been able to find a nurse and induce a severe headache.
"ID checks out."
"She's early. The next check isn't for another twenty minutes."
"Just being efficient," Talia replied. "I could come back if you want me to...."
"No," said the second guard, the suspicious one. "I'd better call this Ellison Building. Who's in charge there?"
"A Dr. Welles," Talia replied, flicking the switch on the jammer. A quick telepathic suggestion fogged the first guard's perceptions just enough. A syringe slipped from the sheath in her left sleeve and, moving with reflexes that would put a Minbari dancer to shame, she slid it into the second guard's neck. The tranquilliser took effect immediately, and he went down.
The other guard moved to react, but he was still trying to shake off the multiple Talias he was seeing. His first instinct was to reach for his link, unaware that communications would be blanked. Talia delivered a swift elbow to his neck and he fell.
Now that she had acted, Talia knew she did not have much time. Going to the bed, she quickly studied the wires and tubes, wondering which ones were safe to pull. She had studied Delenn's medical records, which stated most of them were merely to build her strength and aid nutrition. Hopefully none of them was too essential, but Delenn could certainly not be left here.
Besides, Talia thought with a mental shrug, what did she care if anything happened to Delenn? She was a tool, nothing more.
Delenn's eyes suddenly blinked open and Talia found herself looking deeply into them. "Who.... are...?"
Talia was slightly taken aback by the.... tragedy evident in those two words. There was just a hint there of the suffering Delenn must have endured. It was easy to think of her as an alien monster, or as a playing piece on a giant chess board. To see her as a real person....
It reminded Talia of waking up on an operating table, and seeing her people trapped. Their voices had been quiet in her mind lately.
"I'm a friend. We don't have much time. Can you walk?"
"Yes."
"Good." Moving quickly, Talia began disengaging the wires and drips. Delenn even helped. Gently, Talia helped Delenn from the bed, and took the brunt of her weight as she sagged against her. "There's a friend waiting outside, but we have got to hurry."
"I will.... move as fast as I can."
That journey felt like one of the longest of Talia's life, although it took only a few minutes. She knew where the Security patrols were, she trusted Welles' promise to have the necessary points unmanned, she knew fear was pointless, but still every step seemed to take forever, every corridor seemed a marathon.
Finally, she and Delenn slipped out of a side door, to see an ambulance waiting for them. "Inside," Talia whispered.
"Thought you weren't coming," Dexter replied, as he saw the two of them slip into the back of the vehicle. "I was sure they could hear my heart beating from the other side of the planet."
"Stay calm, and we'll get out of this yet. Just go up to the exit, show them your ID, and remain calm. Remember, this is all routine."
"If you say so."
Talia looked down at Delenn, who was breathing heavily, her hair hanging damp across her face. The juxtaposition of such rich dark hair next to an alien face struck Talia as faintly amusing. "Are you all right?"
"No," came the reply. "But I will be. Why.... why did you do this? I came here to die."
"Well, I came here to rescue you. Don't worry, I'm getting paid."
"Who?"
There was a long silence, as Talia debated whether to tell her or not. Welles had said nothing about keeping his name a secret from her, and yet she was trained in secrets. Finally, she decided to share the information.
"Ah," Delenn said softly. "Ah." That was all.
No one said anything more until they were well clear of the compound and moving quickly. Arrangements had been made to dump the vehicle and move on somewhere safe. Unfortunately, and irritatingly, Talia did not know where to. Dexter had arranged the safe house.
"So?" she said at last. "Where are we going?"
"A safe place," he replied. Then, with a boyish smile. "You'll see."
* * * * * * *
The Tak'cha race possessed a long and fascinating history, but one that Sonovar had no interest in studying. He did not care that they had once believed so passionately in superior beings who had created them that they named themselves the 'Created' in their own language. Nor did he care that this passionate devotion had turned to jealousy, envy and hatred, such that the 'Created' had sought their Gods and had slain one of them. Nor did he care that the Gods had wreaked their bloody vengeance with a ship that blotted out the stars and turned the 'Created's' homeworld to a pile of rock and rubble.
Had Sonovar cared, he would have learned of centuries of wandering and anarchy, and a desperate search for forgiveness and penance. These had ended only when the Blessed Zarwin, the first Sah'thai, had found the Z'ondar, an emissary of the Tak'cha Gods themselves, and had pledged himself to their side. For a brief time they had known true penance and had thrown themselves into this new rôle with a passionate and furious zeal, eager to rid themselves of the mistakes of past generations.
With Zarwin's exile, the Tak'cha had merely gained another array of sins for which to atone. Rank in their society was achieved by atoning for a long list of sins. The Sah'thai - their leader - had atoned for all but one, and that was the forgotten sin, the sin not even Zarwin had properly understood.
Sonovar knew none of this, not caring to find out. His mind was always on the future and so, sometimes, he neglected the past. It was a small sin of the many he possessed, and yet history would judge him for it.
He was in practice with Takier when Cozon and Vhixarion came to see him. At first he was irritated, not liking one of his few moments of peace to be interrupted, but when he saw the excitement in Vhixarion's bearing and tone, his irritation faded rapidly. Something important had surely happened.
"You were correct, Zaron'dar," said Vhixarion, his alien voice marked with a clear Minbari tone: awe. "The sign we have asked you for has come."
Sonovar of course had no idea what this sign was, but he also knew he could not admit that. One of the great things about the cretinously religious was that a good many things could be interpreted in various ways so as to manipulate and control them. Sonovar lived according to his wits, his strength and his conviction. The universe favoured such as him.
"It has been found again. That which was lost. Ende X'ton. We have found it."
Still Sonovar was silent. There was something coming. He could feel it.
"But...." Vhixarion said, enthusiasm replaced by a righteous anger. "Our enemy has found it first. We received a message, a challenge, contempt for us, the Z'ondar's chosen."
Sonovar's eyes darkened. He had been wondering for some time now when Sinoval would emerge again. Had he not been so concerned with the Alliance he might have hunted him down, but Forell had so accurately predicted that Sinoval would surface soon enough, and how much more of a challenge and how much greater the victory to best him on his own ground.
"We will mass the war fleets of the Tak'cha," Vhixarion said. "We will assemble our warriors and our priests and our chosen and our forgiven, and we will go to reclaim Ende X'ton from the accursed one and his Lords of Death. And at our side.... will ride with us the Zaron'dar."
There was no sign on Sonovar's carefully masked visage, but something within him rankled. He, ride with them? He was master here, he the lord, he the visionary and the hero to be.
But that could wait. Something else mattered. Sinoval. He was there. On this.... lost station. He had issued a challenge all right, but not to the Tak'cha.... to Sonovar himself.
"I will ready myself," he said. "Takier.... prepare your ships. Talk to your captains. Sah'thai...." One day I will destroy you. "Sah'thai.... I give you my word, we will reclaim your holy place." A place he could not pronounce if he had a year to practise. "And we will defeat the accursed one and his Lords of Death."
Yes.... Sinoval. They would defeat him, break him utterly. And in the end, Sinoval would acknowledge him Master.
Before he died.
Sonovar barked out a few more orders, although there was little point. Takier knew what to do, and Vhixarion would not listen. They all rushed away, and Sonovar stood in his practice chamber for a moment, alone and basking in the glory of this moment.
"Great lord," said a familiar voice, and Forell moved into view.
"Go away, Forell," Sonovar snapped. "This is a time for warriors, not weaklings. Stay here and pray for all our souls."
"You will not go to Anla'Verenn-veni, great lord."
"What? You.... dare command me?" Sonovar raised his pike. "You dare command me, little worm?" He took a step forward and Forell met his gaze evenly.
"I think only of your best interests, great lord."
Sonovar lowered his pike. "Yes," he said softly. "I suppose you do. Then I will let you explain yourself, Forell. Why am I not to go?"
"This is clearly a trap, great lord, a ploy to draw you in. Sinoval is cunning. Meet him on your terms, great lord, not his. Others are more capable of such a task. Why dirty your own hands with such.... a mundane and tedious purpose?"
"Hah! Of course. I am Sonovar. This is beneath me. Let the Tak'cha have their dead and dusty temples. I will.... guide them from here. Kozorr and Tirivail can handle this in my stead. Yes.... Yes, I know best. Forell! Go to Kozorr and Tirivail and see they are told what to do. Yes.... I will stay here and co-ordinate matters."
"I bow before your great wisdom, great lord," Forell said, suiting the action to the words. He shuffled into the darkness, and the voice of the Keeper in his mind was very satisfied.
* * * * * * *
The old man knew all about power. He knew everything there was to know about controlling people, nations, destinies. For years now he had been secretly running the human race. Oh, not their Government, or their industry or their economy. Those things he left to his subordinates, although he occasionally became involved when he had to.
No, he guided the fate of humanity. He watched everything happening, the onward push of history, and he moulded events slightly, subtly, according to the grand design. Sometimes he wondered if he was himself controlled by this design.
It did not matter. When he died - in truth this time, and not merely as an illusion to keep himself hidden - few people would know anything about his accomplishments, but they would be there. Humanity would be forever changed by his actions.
It was unfortunate that so many would have to die, and it was slightly out of keeping with his philosophy. If anything, the next stage of the grand design was more the sort of strategy that the Enemy might pursue.
That of course made it all the more attractive. Humanity had chosen wrongly, acting in error for selfish reasons, little knowing or caring what they had done when they willingly signed themselves over to the Shadows.
They had to be punished for that error. Any punishment had a number of purposes, of course. First, there was the reinforcement that what had been done was wrong - a lesson. And then there was the deterrent, ensuring that the error would never be repeated.
The lesson would be the deaths of so many; the deterrent the way the deaths would be explained away.
It was a shame, yes, but it was necessary. To bring humanity to Heaven, it must first know Hell. As Rameses had once said: 'Canaan is devastated, Ashkelon is fallen, Gezer is ruined, Yenoam is reduced to nothing, Israel is desolate and her seed is no more, and Palestine has become a widow for Egypt.
'All the countries are unified and pacified.'
"Who said that?" asked a familiar voice, and the old man turned. It was Morden, walking forward, his hand in his pocket as was his habit. "It had the feel of a quotation."
The old man shook his head, smiling slightly. Morden was not much of a historian, not of Earth history anyway. "An ancient king, long dead now."
"All the countries are unified and pacified," Morden repeated. "I don't like the sound of this. It's.... too much like what they might do, the Enemy."
"Yes, it is. But it is not them, it is us. The Enemy believe in chaos, disorder, anarchy. A struggle for supremacy, where everything succumbs to force, to technology, to the movement of armies. We.... Well, for us it is a slow, gentle, loving climb up. Our friends love all the races, even those who make mistakes. To err, is, after all, only human.
"However, no loving parent would spare the rod. To do so only spoils the child. Sometimes, my friend, it is sadly necessary to be cruel to be kind."
"I suppose so. Sacrifices are sometimes necessary." Morden looked up at the machine before them. The telepath, Byron, was still, motionless, his mouth open in a silent scream. "I thought I'd find you here."
"It is a marvel, is it not? A clear and precise image of just how far there is to go. We feel that because we can walk between the stars, conquer worlds and dominate races, we know all there is to know.
"We do not, and I for one hope we never will."
"The never-ending necessity for human achievement. I met a taxi driver a few months ago who was talking about the same thing. Anyway, there is a message for you. From our.... ah.... Lady Gwenhyfar."
Morden handed over the sheet and the old man grabbed it with uncharacteristic haste. 'Lady Gwenhyfar' was of no value in herself, but she was a representative of those who held themselves to be the secret masters of humanity. For centuries there had been those who had ruled by stealth, by secrecy, by the invisible knife in the dark. Names changed constantly, they meant little in the end. Bureau 13 had been the previous appellation, only to be replaced in recent years by the designation of an ancient age of chivalry - the Round Table.
And 'Gwenhyfar' was his eyes and ears there.
"'King Arthur' has called a meeting of his knights," the old man muttered, crumpling up the page. It was written in code of course, but still, no evidence should be kept of his involvement in this, not yet. Morden did not react. Both of them knew who 'King Arthur' was.
"It is the first time he has sought to convene a full meeting since his return from Z'ha'dum. I think he is close to making a move against the President."
"You're sure?"
"He must be. He's a cautious man, and patient, but time is running out and he knows it. This war with the Alliance, their new Dark Star ships.... everything's moving fast and Clark isn't taking enough action to stop it. The 'king' is going to have to do something, and he's bound to want the Round Table to support him."
"Will they?"
"I don't know. Some will. Maybe enough."
"So what are we going to do about it? We can't wake Mr. Byron here yet, can we?"
"No. That would reveal our hand to the Enemy far too soon. The network is powerful, yes, but if an Enemy ship decided to blow this whole building apart, there's precious little we could do about it. We can't activate Byron until the fleet is here." The old man paused. "We're going to have to accelerate the timetable. The sooner the Dark Star fleet gets here, the sooner we can activate our part of the network, the sooner we can administer the.... punishment, and the sooner we can free Proxima."
"Are we going to be ready this soon? Is the fleet going to be ready?"
"It'll have to be."
"Do you want me to contact Captain Sheridan?"
The old man shook his head. "No, he may know who you are. Sinoval's met you, and he definitely knows who you are, and who you work for. He and Sheridan are not very close, but he might have told somebody something. So might Mollari, for that matter. We'd be better off not revealing just who we're working for.
"So.... I think I'll have to do this myself. Hmm.... I've always wanted to talk to Captain Sheridan. I think he's a man who will.... understand our situation here."
"Let's hope so," Morden muttered. "Let's hope so."
* * * * * * *
They thought he was a fool, all of them. For all these years they had thought him an incompetent, a blind man, able to be pushed this way and that, manipulated to fulfill their desired ends. Welles, Sheridan, the Round Table, the MegaCorps, Bester.... all of them.
Well, William Morgan Clark was no fool. He was President of Humanity, and to the masses that meant he was the most powerful person in all the human worlds. Oh, there were some conspiracy theorists who believed in all sorts of things like the Round Table, but recent years had more or less put an end to their credibility. Clark was popular and successful, as Humanity's recent poll had proved.
But to those in the inner circle so to speak, he was a nothing, a figurehead, a nonentity. He went along with all their plans, making futile attempts to direct the course of human affairs, but really all he had to do was sit and watch Welles, Sheridan and Ryan sorting things out. From time to time it amused him and others to insist on certain courses of action, such as concentrating on Sinoval. That was necessary, but also amusing.
It had been fun watching them all wonder if they had underestimated him, or whether another faction had simply got to him first. Sheridan wondering if Welles or Ryan were so concerned about Sinoval, Welles and Bester making plans for the future of the Great Machine....
He was perfectly happy to watch, and direct things according to a grand design.
Let them think he was a nonentity. Let all of them think that. He did not care. His - and humanity's - greatest defeat was coming, greater even than the loss of Earth. Everyone would see it happen, and no one would suspect that their greatest defeat was his greatest victory. Humanity's too, although they would probably never realise that.
He thought again about the new defence grid. It had been improved after the Battle of the Second Line, and tweaked and honed and perfected ever since then. It now represented the pinnacle of modern technology. It was perfect, absolutely flawless.
Save, of course, for the fact that the President had complete access to the keycards and pass codes.
"What happens if I get drunk and wander down here?" he had asked the technician, smiling. The tech had not replied, his face showing clear doubt as to whether Clark was joking with him, or joking at him.
Clark smiled at the memory as he sat back in his chair, looking at the thing in his hand. It was still now, its single eye closed. A particularly revolting creature, although it could be useful in certain circumstances. Clark wished he had time to play with it a little, but unfortunately events were moving too fast. He hadn't had time to play with his previous Keeper after it had been blasted from his body.
He shifted his gaze to the dead bodies on the floor. The Zener's face still bore the expression of the recognition it had experienced in its last, dying moment. Not enough was left of the Drakh for its face to be seen.
The Keeper's eye twitched open, and it trembled with fear. There are some beings who see beyond the mere physical.
Clark closed his fist around it, and began to whistle as he disposed of the remains and washed his hands.
* * * * * * *
Peace was a rarity in a warrior's life. In an existence dedicated to war, to the service of their lord and their people, to the constant search for perfection of body, mind and soul, there was little room for peace. Even rituals of meditation were dedicated to loyalty and service and sacrifice.
Kozorr could count on one hand the number of times he had known true peace in his life. Most of them had featured Kats in one way or another.
He dimly reflected that he would now have to be able to move the fingers of his broken hand enough to begin counting on them too.
He was not sure about his feelings for Tirivail. Her feelings for him she had made quite clear. He admired her, both for her beauty and for her skill in battle, as well as her dedicated loyalty to her father Takier, and to Sonovar. She was many things a true warrior should be, and she reminded him in some ways of Deeron.
But however much time he spent with Tirivail, however many times she hinted or implied or said flat out she would like to take matters further, however much respect he felt for her, he could always hear Kats' voice, see her smile and the gentleness in her eyes.
He sat back, resting against the wall. He did not like sitting down, it was not a position a warrior should ever adopt, but his leg had been paining him after several hours of training and exercise.
"The Osen has been found," Tirivail said. She was standing, as a warrior should, and pacing slowly up and down. "It was destroyed by those new ships the Alliance controls - the Dark Stars. All the crew were killed in the engagement."
"We should never have been raiding Alliance shipping in the first place," Kozorr muttered. "Our war is not with them. It never has been."
"It has weakened relations between the Alliance and Sinoval," she replied. "But you are right. We should not be making war upon civilians and merchants. Leave trade wars for the Narn and the Centauri."
"Has the Alliance discovered who it was behind the attacks?"
"Lord Sonovar does not think so. Or rather, his pathetic little worm of an advisor does not think so. The Alliance is too busy with its war against the humans to bother with us. I do not think they will attack us unless we attack them."
"Then let us hope we don't. We cannot fight a war on two fronts."
"We are warriors," she replied, her eyes gleaming. "We will fight as many foes as we wish."
"And then we will all die, and what will we have achieved? We have lost the Osen. How many ships do we have left? Your Storm Dancers clan and the Tak'cha form the bulk of our military strength now. We do not have the resources for two wars."
"Then we will have a glorious death. Besides, Sinoval has been.... quiet. He has made no attempt to counterattack."
"That," said Kozorr firmly, "is what worries me. Beware a quiet enemy. But, practical considerations aside, the reason we should not fight the Alliance is because we have no reason to, and nothing to gain if we did. At least with the war against Sinoval there is an objective."
"There is?"
"Of course. We are fighting for the future of our people. Well, Sonovar is. Me, I'm...."
"You're fighting for your pretty little worker." She shook her head. "I do not understand you sometimes. She must have bewitched you. How can you have such feelings for a worker?"
"Have you ever been in love, Tirivail?"
"Love?" she snorted. "A delusion crafted by poets and dreamers and priestlings. I have love only for battle." She smiled, studying him closely for his reaction. "Of course, physical attraction and respect I do understand, but that is not love."
"No, it is not, and until you have felt what I feel, you will never understand."
"A worker? In the Name of the Betrayer, Kozorr! They are weak, pathetic, bloodless wretches! Necessary, yes.... and useful, but they are little better than animals."
"Kats is not weak or pathetic. She endured a torture that would have crippled and broken anyone else. I have seen the fire in her soul."
"If it is fire you want, then I will be happy to burn you." Kozorr did not react, and she shrugged. "A waste. Such a waste, but maybe there is still time. And hope. At least she is not a priestling."
"I have never met a priestling worth the respect Kats deserves." Tirivail smiled sweetly. "But then I have met few warriors worth that respect either." The smile faded.
"Am I one of those warriors?"
He paused, and she studied him intently. He could feel the force of her gaze. He was about to reply when the door opened.
It was the smell Kozorr was aware of first, a black stench that made him reel. For one brief moment he thought of Kalain, but then he knew the difference. Kalain's was the smell of death. This was the smell of one who has not bothered with his ablutions for months.
It was Forell of course, Sonovar's rotten little worm of an advisor. The clothes were literally rotting from his back and many of the deep wounds visible on his face and hands were weeping foul-smelling pus. He was carrying a tray and two goblets, which were the cleanest things about him.
"The Great Lord sends these to his two finest warriors with his regards," Forell hissed. His voice seemed clear and precise, although with hints of hoarseness. Before his.... mutilation and torture he had been an adequate orator, and he still tended towards verbosity and sycophancy.
Tirivail grabbed one of the goblets and stepped back cautiously. She did not like Forell, but then few did. Even Takier was prone to wondering just why Sonovar kept him around. He was the only priestling here; even Gysiner and Chardhay had left to go to one of the refugee worlds.
Kozorr rose awkwardly to his feet. The pain in his leg was less now, replaced by a dull thud, but he still knew to be careful not to stumble and fall. He had not noticed before how thirsty he was, and the strong aroma of the elixir almost overrode Forell's filthy odour.
He seized the goblet with unseemly haste and raised it to his lips. The thick red liquid burned his throat as it went down, but he was soon filled with a soft and pleasant warmth. He looked at Tirivail, who was swilling the dregs at the bottom of her goblet thoughtfully. She noticed him looking, and drained the rest.
"And now that you are refreshed, noble warriors," Forell continued, "the Great Lord requests your presence immediately. He needs the strong and the brave to serve him in an.... important matter."
"A mission for us?" Tirivail asked. Her eyes were shining.
"A mission? Yes. An important mission."
A chill ran down Kozorr's spine. There was something lurking just behind Forell's eyes, something that aroused considerable suspicion. He did not like the sound of this.
But then he was a warrior, and, like or dislike, he was sworn to obey his lord.
Unto death.
* * * * * * *
Another routine day at the pub. The usual assortment of the drunk, the lost, the alone, the damned and the corrupt. There were times when Bo struggled to remember why he had opened this bar in the first place.
But then he did remember, his mind returning to the old days as a child, when his father had taken him into the bars. That had been in a small mining village on Vega. Every Sunday afternoon they had gone, as had all Bo's father's friends. They had sat around the same table, drinking patiently, playing cards, telling the same old jokes, laughing, complaining about their jobs and their wives, but all in good humour.
Bo had just sat and listened to them, answering their questions whenever they turned to him, running to fetch their drinks, advising his father on his hand of cards. But mostly, whenever he was tired, he curled up next to the fire - a real, genuine fire - and soaked in the warmth, the atmosphere, the conversation. He had known then that that was what he wanted to do: run a place just like that.
Oh, he had done all sorts of jobs after his father had died. Mining, cleaning, routine maintenance, all the usual shlub work that needed doing but that no one could be bothered doing. But he had done it, working hard, saving his money, and finally he had been able to buy this place.
Somehow, it wasn't how he had wanted it to be. The pub of his childhood had never had to deal with fights every night, never had to slip credits to corrupt Security officers, or pay off the local gangsters. The fire there had been warm and inviting, not a false front like this one. There had been no pathetic losers there, sobbing into their drinks or throwing up on the floor or smashing their glasses.
He wiped the table, lost in a reverie of the past, sighing softly. There was little hope of anything better now. He was too old to seek anything new. No, he was stuck here, but maybe.... just maybe.... he could fix things. He might be able to turn the place around, attract a good local crowd, have things just the way he remembered.
Then he sighed again. He had been having those dreams for years now.
There was movement by the front door, and he tried to remember if he had locked it or not. His mind quickly ran through anyone who might be coming to see him at this time of night. Mr. Trace and his men? - but they had visited the day before. He was fully paid up until the middle of next month, and he couldn't remember doing anything to annoy Mr. Trace. There was the typical drunken or drugged-up thief, but he remembered what had happened to the last person who had tried to rob a business 'protected' by Mr. Trace. Bits of him were still showing up in back alleys.
Security weren't out and about at this time. So who?
He mumbled something angrily to himself. Probably Jinxo or someone like him throwing up in his doorway, or settling down to sleep, or both. Or expecting him to still be open, and just looking for somewhere warm.
"Oh, go away!" he cried to the door. "I'm closed."
He turned back to the bar, and heard the rattling again. As he looked up, he saw three people walking towards him. He recognised the one in front, but the name didn't come straight away. The other two were women, and one of them looked quite ill. She was leaning heavily on the other.
"I locked that door," he said. "Didn't I?"
"You did," said the conscious woman. "You could do with a better lock."
"We need your help, Bo," said the man.
"Dexter!" he said, recalling the name at last. "Wh.... what are you doing here? Security are still after you."
"Well, they're going to be after me a whole lot more now. Where's the Pit clinic?"
"The.... the.... the.... what? I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do, Bo. Before I went.... underground, I listened to things. Lots of things. You know everything there is to know about Sector Three-o-one, Bo. There's a clinic around here, somewhere, run for people who haven't got anywhere else to go. They'll look after people wanted by Security. And you know where it is."
"I'm a law-abiding citizen. I don't know...."
"Bo, there's someone here who needs your help. Badly. This is a chance for you to do something good, something right. No more pandering to Trace, or Allan, or anyone else. A chance to do something good for yourself. For all of us."
"I.... might know something. Who is she anyway?"
The two women stepped forward, and Bo caught a look at the sick one for the first time. Her head was drooping and there was a misty look in her eyes, but he didn't register any of that at first.
"Holy Mother of Gandhi," he whispered. "That's.... that's.... that's...."
"Yes," said Dexter. "It is. But she's also someone who needs your help. Can you give it?"
"I.... might know.... something," he whispered. "Maybe."
Dexter smiled. "Thanks, Bo. You're doing the right thing."
"Oh, I hope so. I hope so."
* * * * * * *
Dear Victoria,
Well, I've done it now. She's free. I heard the report on the emergency frequency less than an hour ago. Naturally, I was appropriately angry. I took all the right actions, ordering full Security sweeps, a search for those responsible.... all that. It doesn't matter. They won't be found. I'm sure of it.
But I will be. I slipped up. Oh, it wasn't anything specific. I did everything as well as I could. The false IDs would have worked fine. But.... it'll be traced back to me. It's obvious even to a blind man that this couldn't have been done without help from inside, from someone very highly placed. They'll find me.
What matters is that they don't find Delenn. Maybe they won't trace things to me for a while. You never know, I might even have time to start that investigation into Sector 301 I promised Smith. Winters has the data crystal I promised, so she'll be happy.
All this is strange. I had plans at the beginning, when I got word of her capture. I could get her help, make a deal with her. It was necessary for the future of humanity. Clark's throwing us into more and more wars that aren't our concern. What do we care about the Alliance? Why did we get involved with Epsilon 3?
Delenn could have helped us. She could have spoken to the Alliance Council, forged some sort of treaty, tried to warn them, anything. With her testimony and with me in the Government here, then.... we could still salvage something from this mess. We could still save humanity.
But look at us now. I don't think we deserve to be saved.
I ordered the murder of an unborn baby for political reasons. I didn't hate him, he had never done anything to wrong me. He just had the wrong mother, and he became life at the wrong moment. That's it.
Hate me if you like, Vicky. You can't hate me worse than I hate myself now. No.... you probably wouldn't hate me. You'd sit there looking at me with those soft, deep brown eyes of yours and you'd understand. You'd understand everything and you'd forgive me, and that just makes it so much worse.
I don't want to be forgiven! I did something terrible, and I don't want to be told I had my reasons, that it was understandable, that it was all right, that I'm forgiven.
We don't deserve to be saved, none of us.
I miss you, Vicky. I've missed you every single day for the past eight years and I'll never stop missing you.
Why did you have to die?
There's no one to blame either. Oh, I could try blaming the Minbari, but what good would that do? That will only lead to more hate. There's probably a Minbari sitting out there somewhere thinking about his lost love and blaming it on us.
We have to stop this somehow, but I've no idea how. I don't think we can. The people don't want it to stop.
As I said, we don't deserve to be saved.
Ah.... they're coming for me. Give Clark credit, he's good. Much cleverer than any of us have seen, even Sheridan. He's planning something. I don't know what, and I don't care, but I do know he's been sitting there pretending to be an idiot while the rest of us have been sniping at each other.
I've got to go. They'll find this letter, of course. Let them. I've said what needed to be said, and it's not as if you're here to read it. I think I just needed to talk to you one last time.
Goodbye, Vicky. I love you.
Welles set down his pen and looked up at the door. They were pounding on the other side of it. Men would even now be taking up positions at the back door, the windows and all possible points of escape. All unnecessary, of course. He had no intention of trying to escape.
He wondered what he would be charged with. Treason against the duly authorised Government, under section 2(1) of the Wartime Emergency Provisions 2247. That was a certainty. Aiding and abetting an enemy of the people. Perverting the course of justice.
Oh, he would be charged with whatever they liked. He would be charged, convicted and sentenced to death. Probably several times over.
He didn't mind. In fact he was quite looking forward to it. It would all be over. All of it. The guilt, the fear, the pain, the loss. All gone.
The door burst open and in rushed the Security officers. His men. His own men. He knew all their names, their spouses' names, their children's names and how many pets they all had.
He slowly rose to his feet.