A Dark, Distorted Mirror. Volume 4. A Future, Born in Pain

Prologue : The World Standing Still.

He had been dreaming, but he could not remember what he had been dreaming about. He was fairly certain Delenn had been there somehow — she had always been in his dreams since his.... injuries. Or had they been real, and not dreams?

Nothing had seemed real since Epsilon 3. He had seen and heard the strangest things. He had even dreamed his father had come to him, he was working for the Shadows and....

John Sheridan stopped that thought dead and sat up, the blanket falling from his body. He lifted his hand and looked at it with a slow and childlike wonder. He could move. He could really move again. He stretched and twitched his fingers. It was incredible how such a.... mundane gesture could bring such joy.

For the first time in months, John Sheridan was truly awake. The dreaming was over.

He rose from the bed, and picked up a robe by its side. He realised Delenn must have laid it out for him, and he smiled, wondering where she was. Maybe something important had happened. He wasn't really sure what the state of things was in the galaxy these days. He had been.... incoherent for a long time.

He looked in the next room, puzzled to see no sign of her. Maybe she had been called away. Important Alliance business perhaps. "Delenn?" he said softly, looking around.

There was a beeping noise from the commscreen at the far end of the room, and he moved towards it. The computer voice began to speak. "Voice print recognised. There is a delayed-time message for John Sheridan from Delenn. Begin message."

A great light filled his mind, and all that was not clear suddenly became so. "No," he said. "Do not play message."

"Message halted."

The personal chambers of Delenn, the leader of the United Alliance of Kazomi 7, were generally considered sacrosanct. There were cleaners and servants who occasionally came in to see to matters, but they had been given instructions not to come this morning, instructions given by Delenn shortly before she had gone to what would undoubtedly be her death.

As a result, there was no one there to see John Sheridan's eyes glow with a bright, burning, golden light. There was no one to hear the voice that was not his come from his mouth, as he gave an instruction of his own.

"Delete message."

"Message deleted."

This done, he nodded once, satisfied, and the golden glow faded from his eyes. He went to find his clothes and to get dressed. He had been away for a long time, and there was a great deal to do. There was a war to fight.

The war was not over, but it had at least paused. Centauri Prime was safe. The sounds of revelry filled the Court, a celebration the Emperor had not dared to cancel. There had been little enough cause for joy this past year: from Lord Valo's attack on the Court, to the burnings and madness that had consumed Camulodo, to the ever-present threat of the Narn attacks. Let the Court enjoy their moment of victory; there were very few who knew just how high the cost of that victory had been.

The Emperor, Londo Mollari, did not know. He might suspect, but he did not know. He had been told that which was necessary and no more. The Narn fleet had been driven away, beaten back, and they were currently retreating to their former staging point. Warleader G'Sten was in all likelihood still alive. Centauri casualties had been.... nonexistent.

The truth was a dangerous thing at the best of times, especially in an environment as perilous as the Court. The Emperor's loyal friend, devoted servant and Lord-General knew that all too well. Better by far that Londo not know the cost of this victory, or how it had been bought.

Lord-General Marrago had seen too much death in this war, just as he had in the last one. He and G'Sten had been dancing around each other for what seemed like all their lives. Marrago had the greatest respect for G'Sten, and he even envied the Narn a little. The Kha'Ri seemed to have given him the power to prosecute this war entirely as he wished. If only he himself had been given the same power last year, this.... new alliance would not have been necessary.

Quadrant 37 had been lost, battles had been lost, soldiers had been killed.... and all because of the complex and deadly dance the Court called the 'Great Game'. Marrago did not know whether Prime Minister Malachi or Prince Cartagia had been entirely responsible. Each had, for his own reasons, honourable and base, wished to see the war go badly, and each was now dead. Their deaths had only given weight to the fictions that had surrounded their lives.

The truth was too painful, too painful by far. Let it be borne by those with the strength to bear it, and let the weak enjoy the victories bought by sacrifice.

Marrago was sitting alone in his office, pondering the reports from the front. It was time to begin to strike back. The Centarum had been buoyed up by the ease of this victory, and they were making grandiose claims about marching all the way to Narn and blowing it apart. Fools and braggarts, the lot of them. This would not be an easy war, not unless he completed the deal he had begun. One battle.... one victory, that could be paid for. But the entire war....

One of the first objectives would have to be the Gorash system. It had contained the Republic's major shipping yards, resource deployments and supply lines. Civil unrest had paralysed the system enough for the Narns to take it. It would have to be retaken, and that would not be easy....

His mind was still filled with thoughts of strategy, deployments and tactics when the Guards-Captain of the Court came to see him.

"Lord-General, there is something which must be brought to your immediate attention."

"Yes. Go ahead." Marrago liked the man. Good, decent, loyal, honest. The ideal soldier. And so naturally the Court did not recognise his talents and had kept him in limbo for years.

"It is the prisoner. The special prisoner.... He has escaped."

Marrago sighed and closed his eyes. That was not a surprise, but it was annoying nonetheless. Mr. Morden was a man with many and powerful associates. He was too dangerous to be permitted the free rein of the Republic Londo had.... unwisely been giving him.

"How?"

"We do not know, my lord. I am willing to take full responsibility, my lord. I ask only that you.... spare my family."

He knew what the Guards-Captain was saying. Execution would be a lenient response to such a failure, whether it had truly been his fault or not. The torture and deaths of his family were likely as well.

"You are not at fault, Captain. You will speak of this to no one save myself. Security around the Emperor is to be doubled.... no, tripled. If you ever see the prisoner anywhere in the Republic again you are to shoot to kill, but be careful. He is very dangerous. Report back to me whatever you discover about him, no matter how trivial, and no matter the time or the place.

"You are a good servant of the Republic, Captain. I will never forget that."

"Thank you, my lord."

"You may go."

The captain left and Marrago turned back to his papers, but a dark cloud was hovering over his mind. His recent victory might yet turn out to be more costly than even he had thought.

He had been nursing his drink for a long time, looking at it reflectively, brooding, thinking, waiting. Dexter Smith had always liked pubs, ever since he had been a child, creeping into the Emperor Bibulos for the warmth and the company and to hear the stories of the regulars. He had actually believed most of them, and he had walked around convinced that he knew a legendary space explorer, the world's greatest baseball player, and the galaxy's most prominent genetic surgeon.

Illusions and dreams, crafted in lies and half-hopes and delusions.

The Emperor was now long gone, and he had settled for the Pit Trap. The lager was cheap and drinkable, the barman was a veritable fount of information, and it was, all told, a nicer place than his apartment, if only just.

As the only customer with anything resembling both consciousness and money, Smith was the major object of Bo's conversational skills.

And the topic of conversation, which had varied from the baseball, to the ISN reports of the Narn / Centauri War, to President Clark's promises to put more money into Sector 301, had finally settled on the big news of the week.

"Did you see those ships? You could pick a few of them out last night, up there. Keeping us safe. Kinda reassuring, although they look a little.... creepy, if you get me."

Smith did indeed get him, unfortunately. "Yes, I saw them." Shadow ships, creations of darkness and chaos that screamed inside his mind. He had fought them at Epsilon 3, and seen their terrible destructive power first hand.

And they were humanity's allies, humanity's protectors, humanity's guardians.

Who would guard humanity from their guardians?

"Pretty impressive, though. I heard this race.... the.... whadyacallem.... the Shadows. I hear they're like.... real old. Ancient, even. They'll sort out the Minbari, no doubt. Anyone else too for that matter."

Yes, they could. The Minbari did not need 'sorting out', no matter what President Clark was saying about Sinoval on ISN. Smith had never met the Primarch himself, but he had been in combat against the Minbari. They were a broken power now, shattered, perhaps irrevocably, fatally divided.

"You're a military man, ain't ya?" Bo said suddenly, and Smith looked up.

"I was."

"You seen these Shadows in action?"

"Yes...." He closed his eyes, and for one minute he was back at Epsilon 3, watching ship after ship blown to pieces, hearing their screams in his mind, watching an entire world torn apart. "Yes, I have."

"Musta been something, eh?"

"One way of putting it."

"So.... if ya don't mind me asking, why ain't you up there with them now? What brings someone like you back here? You don't belong here, I can see that. Not any more."

"I.... I just saw a little bit too much. More than I was comfortable with. I couldn't serve in the military any longer, and.... I needed to get back to my roots, I suppose you could say. I needed to find something smaller, something to work towards that wasn't saving the world, or the galaxy.... something where I wouldn't get people killed."

"Musta been rough."

"Not for me. I'm still alive, after all."

"So, you really grew up in three-o-one, eh? And you made it out. That's impressive. 'Course, maybe things weren't as bad back then. I'm from Orion, myself, so I wouldn't know what it was like then."

"It was.... I don't think it was as bad then as it is now, but it was never perfect. As a child, I enjoyed it. Everything was an adventure, so many places to run, to hide, to play. I saw the people starving to death, begging.... and I never really realised. My brother died when I was thirteen, and that was the first time I ever really saw what this place was.... That's when I resolved to get out."

"How'd you manage that?"

"It.... wasn't that hard, really. I suppose. Looking back at it, anyway. I had nothing to keep me here. My brother was dead, my sister married off to some rich businessman up-sector, my mother was in prison. I made my way to Sector Three-o-three, and got a job waiting in a hotel. I managed to save a bit, joined a gym.... I didn't have much of a goal. I was just.... glad to be doing something for myself, something away from three-o-one.

"When I was fifteen I joined Earthforce, lying something chronic to do it. I think the officer training me had some suspicions, but he kept them to himself. A good man, was Captain MacDougan. I think he's dead now.

"Getting out of here.... wasn't easy, but I managed it."

"And now you're back."

"Yes. I'm back."

He fell silent and turned back to his drink. After a while he finished it, and left.

"I am sending you this message because I will soon be dead.

"I do not understand the full details, Sinoval. I do not fully understand why my allies should wish to kill me, or what they can hope to gain, but then perhaps I am too close to the situation, too close to them.... to see."

Primarch Sinoval stood silent and still, listening to Delenn's message, one of the last she would have time to send. The opening words had hit him, but he had soon regained his composure. He could see Delenn's bearing in the hologram of the message. She was proud and resilient, accepting of her fate.

She was Minbari, in soul if no longer in body, and he gave her a silent salute.

"The Vorlons have healed John of the injuries he suffered at Epsilon Three. They have also cured him entirely of the virus with which Jha'dur infected him. I do not know how, and they would not tell me. I did not enquire too closely, Sinoval. I was happy just to see him live, and walk. I do not know if they will be willing to provide this cure to any others who may be suffering from this virus, but as we do not know for sure if anyone is, and as any such cure would have to go through you, then I doubt it.

"But these acts of compassion were not without price. As payment for healing and curing John, the Vorlons have demanded that I go to Z'ha'dum, where they fully expect me to die. I will die there, Sinoval, or if not there, then elsewhere, perhaps Proxima.

"I do not know why they wish me dead, or why they have gone about it this way, rather than a simple attack. I do not wish to know. That is for you to discover.

"I have had little time to prepare these messages, and I have had time for only four. One is to John, explaining that I love him, and what I have done. Another is for my best friend, and the third is for the Alliance Council that is to lead after me.

"But I send this to you for two reasons. First, you may be able to use this information. You have been right all along. The Vorlons are not our allies. In fact, they may yet prove to be deadlier and far more terrible even than the Shadows, for they are evil masked as good. You can see this, where no one else has been able to. I do not believe this was always the case, but since the death of Kosh at Epsilon Three a new faction has arisen. Kosh, I believe, truly was our friend. The new faction is not.

"Use my death, use this information I have been able to provide to you. Use it as best you can.

"And secondly.... save our people, Sinoval. Save the Minbari. You are the person for this, in these times. You told me once something that has proven to be true, no matter how much I would wish it not to be. These times need a warrior, not a priest. You are a warrior, Sinoval, and perhaps the greatest there has ever been, or ever will be. I am nothing but a priest, and while I can heal wounds, I cannot inflict them, which must be done to end this war and save our people.

"I forgive you for what you have done, for I see now that you meant only the same as I did: the salvation and protection of our people.

"Be strong, Sinoval, and be true to the role you have taken for yourself. I do not think we will meet again this side of death, but if by some chance we do.... then I will be able to forgive you in person.... if you will forgive me.

"Goodbye."

Delenn's hologram faded, and Sinoval blinked once. He digested this information for a moment, and became aware of a simmering anger, one that had been building since Kozorr had left Cathedral. He had never liked Delenn, but he had always respected her, and to see her fall like this....

But why? He thought about it for a moment, and then nodded, smiling sadly. "Ah, Delenn.... you are right. You cannot understand. But I can. You see, Delenn, I may know nothing of love, but I understand revenge all too well.

"You will go to Z'ha'dum, and there you will die. The Vorlons will explain this to Sheridan, and he will become everything they need in their war. He will become their ultimate warrior, their Starkiller. His only link with peace destroyed.... you.... they will be able to mould him into their image, and for their purposes."

His face took on a furious expression, and he raised his fist towards the heavens.

"I will not permit this!"

The shadows all around him began to shimmer, and the Primarch Majestus et Conclavus walked slowly into view. "You seem angry, my friend," he observed, his ageless face calm.

"I am.... but I know where my path leads me now. If we are to have any hope of victory, the Alliance and the Army of Light must not fall into the Vorlons' hands. Sheridan must not fall into their hands."

"You have a plan?"

"Indeed I do. We will go to Kazomi Seven."

"She's coming."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I can.... feel her."

"Hmm." David Sheridan paused in thought, looking at his companion. He felt distinctly ill-at-ease in such company, but he tried not to show it. He had a lifetime's experience of being in the company of aliens, but it was hard to look at Neroon and feel anything but hatred. He was Minbari, and warrior caste Minbari as well. It had been people like him who had destroyed Earth and everything in it.

But that was in the past. Neroon was.... not the same person he had been then. He was changed. It was remarkable what a little.... engineering could do.

For the most part, Sheridan did not even care about the Minbari any more. They were no threat to humanity now — they were fractured, divided, torn, practically at civil war. And after what had been done to Minbar, they knew what it was like to lose their home. Vengeance had been achieved, justice had been served.

If anyone were to ask him why he was continuing with the path he had begun so long before, he would have three answers for them.

To protect humanity. Not from the Minbari, for they were no danger now, but from everyone. From the Vorlons, the Alliance, Sinoval.... Humanity had, through no fault of its own, become involved in a war millennia older than itself, and someone had to keep the people safe. It might as well be him.

To free his son. John was trapped in this, by the Vorlons, by.... her, by all of them. He had chosen wrongly, yes, but he was the only living being to share his blood. He could forgive his prodigal son almost anything. He had to.

To.... The third reason was one he could not explain or give voice to. It simply was.... And it was her. Perhaps his obsession was born out of the last vestiges of desire for revenge, or maybe it was to do with his desire to protect John.

Whatever, he had invited her here before, during his genuine hopes of peace with the Alliance. She had refused, both his offer and the peace with the Shadows. Whatever deaths came about from this war were now on her head.

And now she was coming here. Neroon certainly seemed to think so, and he was.... unlikely to be wrong about something like this. There had been a time when he had known her very well.

"Well," he said finally. "I should tell our.... associates."

"They already know," whispered a harsh voice, a third voice. Sheridan looked at Susan Ivanova, his predecessor at Proxima 3, and sighed. He had been unsure of what to do with her. Their gambit at Epsilon 3 had failed, and she was unfit for anything else. She had apparently spent most of her time on Kazomi 7 asleep or delirious, and since he had arranged for her release to Z'ha'dum during the peace negotiations he had seen little evidence of any improvement in her condition.

Still, the Shadows seemed to want her. They undoubtedly believed there was still some use for her, although he could not think of one.

He paused, and realised he was being unfair. The failure on Epsilon 3 had been out of her hands, and she had done well, for the most part, as Ambassador to Proxima. She had only failed once, but it had been a colossal failure that he still had not been able to resolve.

She looked up at him, and he caught the full range of emotions in her eyes. Anger, fear, remorse, disgust.... acceptance. "They already know."

"But why is she coming?" he asked, speaking largely to himself. There was little chance of a coherent answer from either of his companions. She must know that this was a futile mission, and that she would not leave here alive. He had always prided himself on being a good judge of character, but this time his skills were failing him.

"Why?"

"To kill you," whispered Ivanova. "She's coming to kill you all."

At last, the Shadows had come to Sanctuary.

Alfred Bester had been expecting this for many months. Ever since he had made a desperate gambit to seize control of the Great Machine of Epsilon 3, betraying the Resistance Government, the Shadows and G'Kar in the process, he had been expecting retribution. It had been inevitable.

And now it was here.

Fortunately he had had time to make preparations. But even he felt a chill as he looked at the ships approaching his station. There were a great many of them, more than he had been expecting. He supposed they would have to be sure. He was a telepath after all, as were most of those who followed him. The Shadow ships were vulnerable to telepathic interference, a fact uncovered by G'Kar in one of the ancient Narn holy texts. He had used this information to begin a deal with Bester, and so had brought the remnants of the Psi Corps into this war.

And now Bester was taking them out of it. They had all thought Psi Corps destroyed with Earth, but they had all been wrong. The Corps had resources stretching further and wider than anyone realised. Sanctuary was just one such place. The Corps could stay hidden for years, decades, and wait for the time. Oh, they would lose some of their influence and power in the years they hid, but it would not last forever. Nothing would be lost that could not be regained.

The Corps was mother, the Corps was father, and Alfred Bester was the Corps.

The Shadows bore down on Sanctuary, surrounding it completely. Bester watched, and recognised the strategy. They would undoubtedly prefer to take the station if at all possible. There were a great many resources available on board, and the Shadows needed telepaths of their own for their ships.

He would not let that happen to his people.

A message was sent to Sanctuary. He did not bother listening to it. There was no point.

With the press of a button an explosion ripped through the station, and the entire structure was consumed by fire. Shards of debris were blown outwards, tearing into the ships. Hopefully, some of them had been close enough to be damaged or even destroyed, although Bester had few illusions as to the strength of the Shadow vessels.

He turned away from the screen that showed Sanctuary's destruction. The station had become important to him over the past few years, almost a home. But any tool that cannot be discarded if necessary is not a tool, but a trap.

From its safe point in hyperspace, the Ozymandias watched the destruction.

"Our probes picked their approach up easily enough," said his companion, and, strangely enough for a mundane, his friend. "We got out almost everything we hadn't already moved elsewhere."

Bester nodded.

"So.... what now?"

"Now, Captain?" He turned to look at Captain Ari Ben Zayn. "Now we wait. We sit back, and we wait. Let our enemies tear themselves apart. We can always come out and pick up the pieces, whether it takes us a year, or a century.

"The galaxy hasn't heard the last of us yet."

Emperor of the Centauri Republic was seldom seen as a job with much of a future, especially these days. The last two incumbents had been assassinated, with the last one, Emperor Refa, having sat on the Purple Throne for less than two days.

Londo Mollari had few illusions as to his chances for long-term survival. Oh, matters had certainly improved in the half-a-year since he had taken the throne, but to say all was perfect would be blatantly untrue.

The Emperor, as it had been said in an old poem, sat alone, far beyond the reach of those who could only cower at his feet. It had been meant as a compliment, feeding the vanity of those who saw themselves as Gods. Londo recognised it for what it was: a curse. He was alone, and would be alone for the rest of his life.

But still, he had friends, a few at least. There were Marrago and Durano, whose loyalty and friendship towards him were matched only by their growing hatred of each other. There was Timov, dear, dear Timov. There was Lennier....

And there were a few others who could not be with him now, burdened as they were by their own concerns. Delenn sprang to mind, and he wondered how she was doing. He had heard very little of outside events since he had returned to Centauri Prime over a year ago. He had heard about the bombardment of Minbar and about a great battle at Epsilon 3, but nothing else.

It was time to end that. It was time to take the Centauri Republic back to the thrones and parliaments of the galaxy. They had waited, on Marrago's advice, determined to go to the Alliance and the others as equal partners, rather than on bended knee. Now, thanks to their victory, they could do that. Marrago's luck had certainly improved since the last time he and Londo had gambled together: he could hardly believe the ease of their victory. He must have pulled off one of his legendary miracles.

Londo was no soldier, and he was very glad of it. Leave that to Marrago and Carn and the others. His mind was on diplomacy and long-term planning. First, bring the Republic back to the notice of the great powers of the galaxy, the Alliance in particular. Secondly, seek some sort of accommodation with the Alliance, and begin working on a peace treaty with the Narns. There were more important concerns now than their rivalry. Third....

He nodded to his guards as he strolled past them into his private quarters. He had been ambling idly through the palace for hours, musing on things past and things present and things better. His security had been well attended to.

He paused and looked up as he entered the room. There was someone here, seated beside his bed. In the shadows he could not see who it was, although he was sure he knew this person. He raised his light globe. "Who is there?" he asked.

"I realise it has been a long time," said a familiar voice, and Londo found himself smiling, "but I would like to think you would remember me. Unless of course you have no time for your old friends now that you have risen to such high office."

"G'Kar!" he laughed, as the Narn stepped forward and bowed.

"Indeed, Mollari. I thought it past time to pay you a personal visit. We have a great deal to talk about."

Kats sat alone, trapped in a prison of her own making, torn apart from the two constants in her life this past year. She had never felt such pain as she felt now: the pain of betrayal, of loss, of sorrow.

She was alone.

Sinoval had departed the day before, having made arrangements for the running of his demesne in his absence. He had spoken to Durhan, he had arranged for some of the Soul Hunters to remain behind.... and then he had come to her.

It had been the first time they had spoken since he had brought her the news of Kozorr's betrayal. Nothing had been right between them since then. Actually, nothing had been right since Kozorr's 'death' here at Tarolin 2. She had once claimed to be his conscience, his angel, his wisdom. She had been acutely aware of the position to which she had been raised, and she had resolved not to abuse it. But how could she wield any power when she barely had the power to help herself?

She had listened to his intentions carefully, making no comment. She was his conscience, but she could not bring herself to advise on his course of action. She could see the anger growing behind his dark eyes: he had once said she was the only person who could read him at all.

She could see the darkness that was threatening to engulf the hope of the Minbari people, and yet she had said nothing.

He was going to Kazomi 7. He was going to speak to the leaders of all the races in this war, and try to warn them about the Vorlons, if that could be done. And if that was not possible, then he might be forced to do something else. She thought she could sense the dark plan forming in his mind, but she could not give voice to her fears. She could hardly hope to criticise him, when she had so much to criticise in herself.

He had given his traditional blessing as he had left. "Be at peace, my lady, and be happy." She had said nothing, unable even to find the words.

And now he was gone, and she was alone. Kozorr was gone, and she was alone.

The door opened, and she looked up. She was supposed to be meditating, but that had been growing more and more difficult of late. Most people knew of the times set aside for her privacy and respected them, except in dire emergency.

The new arrival was a warrior, who wore Sinoval's personal crest. She was one of the new order then, one of those who had cast aside old clans and old loyalties, and taken to calling themselves the Primarch's Blades. Trained and commanded personally by Sech Durhan — at least since Kozorr's 'death' - they were fanatically loyal to Sinoval, and deeply respectful to those they saw as his friends, of which she was one.

The warrior knelt formally, stretching her pike out towards Kats in a time-honoured gesture of loyalty and submission. Kats never failed to be puzzled by this. She could still remember the days when such people would have openly spit on her in the street, and Kalain's genocide of the worker caste had ended less than two years ago.

"There is someone here to see you, my lady," the warrior said, using the worker caste language instead of the warrior dialect. Another sign of respect. "She says she is known to you, and she claims to have a message for the Primarch."

"Who is it?" Kats asked softly.

"She has given us the name Sherann."

"That's impossible," Kats breathed softly. "Show her in."

The warrior nodded and rose, heading for the door. Kats rose as well, following her softly. This was impossible. All word had been that Sherann had been killed in the massacres, one of the countless victims of Kalain's purging of the worker caste.

But at the first sight of her in the doorway, Kats knew it was her cousin. She stepped forward, hardly daring to believe it. "It is you," she whispered. "Sherann.... how...?"

"Give your message," said the warrior, looking at her. It was clear that whatever respect was allotted to Kats did not extend to Sherann.

"I need to speak to Sino...." Sherann checked herself. "I need to speak to the Primarch."

"He's not here," Kats said softly. She could read the fear in her cousin's eyes. "Sherann, how.... how did you get here?"

"I escaped," she whispered. "I managed to escape from Minbar. From them. I need to get help from.... the Primarch. Without him.... if he doesn't come.... we're all going to die. Everyone on Minbar.... we're all going to die."

There had been a time, once, when he had believed in the uniform he now wore. He had believed in Earthforce, in duty and glory and honour and all the things that had been thrown at him when he joined up.

Not any more. Zack Allan believed in very little of anything these days. He had developed one creed that was serving him very well at the moment. Keep your head down, don't cause any fuss, and just get by as best you can.

It had been quite a slide, from Chief Security Officer of the pride of humanity's space fleet — okay, the entirety of humanity's space fleet being one ship — to the Chief of the most worthless, corrupt and generally irredeemable area on Proxima. He had tried to fight it at one point, but he had eventually just given up. Fighting got you nowhere.

That was a policy he had instituted in the last eight months since he had taken over Sector 301. His predecessor had been mildly corrupt, a little idealistic but generally too old and inept to do anything about any of the major problems in the sector. He had retired on full pension, and Main Dome had apparently wanted someone younger, someone with the drive and energy to take on the corruption and the syndicates and the general decay.

An impossible aim, as they soon realised, and instead they had shunted Zack here, hoping no doubt to keep him from revealing too much about his time on the Babylon, especially concerning the activities of a certain Captain John Sheridan.

On his first day in office Zack had been approached by Mr. Trace, local businessman, owner of the Tron nightclub and all-round mafioso. Trace explained how 301 had worked under Zack's predecessor, and how it could carry on working exactly the same way. Zack had listened to him patiently.

There had been a time when Zack would have arrested the businessman for attempting to bribe a public officer, and made a concerted effort to shut Trace down for good. But that had been a while back.... when he had still believed.

Besides, he now knew just how difficult that would have been. Trace had some major-league backing from Main Dome and the MegaCorps. He was carrying out certain.... unspecified 'services' for some pretty high-up people. Zack didn't know who or what, and he didn't care. He was paid quite handsomely, he got to indulge his fondness for a generally peaceful life, there was no one from Main Dome bothering him, and he could turn a blind eye to anything unpleasant.

And if there were times, usually very early in the morning, when he realised what he had become and despised himself.... well, a glass or six of whisky or a shot of Storm soon put those feelings right.

Dreams of idealism, of hope, of duty had died in Zack Allan a long time ago. All he wanted now was an easy life, and a sector free from troublemakers. Usually, 301 didn't bring up much to trouble him. Oh, every so often you got some new gang lord coming in to try to take things over, but Trace and his backers soon put paid to them. There were occasional mutterings from up-sector about 'urban renovation' or 'reconstruction projects' but none of them ever came to anything.

All in all, his life had been pretty quiet lately.

Until recently. There were two troublemakers in 301 and they were already disrupting his life simply by being here. Captain Dexter Smith, Zack's former superior aboard the Babylon, had taken up residence here for some reason, and seemed to be trying to make Mr. Trace's life very difficult.

And there was some telepath, an infiltrator from somewhere. She was more dangerous, and Trace badly wanted her caught. Smith could just be killed and dumped in some construction site foundations somewhere, but this telepathic woman.... Trace wanted her very much alive.

There was a puzzle there somewhere, and the old Zack could have worked it out with very little effort. The new Zack did not want to.

His commscreen beeped, and he checked his watch. Fourteen hundred hours exactly. Say what you liked about Trace. He was always punctual.

"Hey, Allan," he said. "How's business?"

"Going okay. Everything's been a little quiet after the New Year celebrations. People sleeping off a hangover or two, I reckon." Sector 301 did not generally go in for celebrating anything, but this year had been an exception. Never mind the news about the permanent posting of the Shadows at Proxima, it seemed that everything was just generally on the up for humanity.

"Well, I'm not surprised. You had a good night, I take it?"

Zack had been to the Tron, and been supplied with free drinks and whatever else he liked, all courtesy of Mr. Trace. The man certainly treated his friends well. He had been quite surprised to see several celebrities, politicians and military figures there. "Perfect, as always. You throw the best parties anywhere on the planet."

Trace laughed. "Well, maybe not yet, but we're working on it. It'll be VM-Day soon. You'll have to come along."

"Oh, I intend to." VM-Day. Victory over the Minbari. It would be the second anniversary of the Battle of the Second Line in six weeks or so. It was going to be one hell of a party, no doubt about that.

"So, any news on our fugitive telepath?"

"We've put out an APB, and I've got plenty of men at all the major tube stations. She was spotted at the Mainline station a couple of days ago, but she managed to escape the pursuit. She's good, I'll say that for her. She's still in three-o-one, I'm certain of it, but.... you know what it's like. You can stay hidden for years in here."

"Well, we'll find her eventually. You just keep all the exits covered and do your part, Allan. We'll do ours. Say.... did you watch the game last night?"

"You bet. We were robbed."

"You can't get the umpires these days. He was clearly safe. I don't know.... I'm tempted to send a few guys round to that umpire's place and teach him a few things...." Trace suddenly laughed. "Just kidding, Allan. Naw, the Swashbucklers are still top of the league, and I can't see the Templars catching them up."

"It's a tough game against the Shadows next week," Zack mused. "But once they get past that, we're on a pretty easy course for the next few weeks. Reckon we'll be holding the pennant by season's end?"

"We'd better be. I've got a couple thousand credits resting on it. Well, I'll get back to you, Allan. This place don't run itself.... more's the pity. You going to be at the club tonight?"

"I wish. We're a bit short-handed here at the moment, so I'm on duty till midnight or so. I'll be down tomorrow, though."

"I thought you were getting a bigger budget.... hire more guys or something."

"Naw. The security forces as a whole got a bigger budget and are hiring new guys, but if you were a brand-new, fresh-out-of-college recruit, where would you rather serve? The Pit, or on that new capital ship, the Dark Thunder? Captain Barns has been trying to get a decent Security squad ready for when the ship becomes operational next month. And then after that, there's the other ship, the D.... something."

"The De'Molay."

"That's the one. They'll be needing a Security force as well, or at least they will once they get a captain."

"Hey, that reminds me of something. Fenn and Linton — the bookies — well, they've got some fairly impressive odds running on who's going to be the captain of that ship."

"It'll be Ramirez, won't it? Thought that one was pretty much done apart from the official announcement."

"That's what the public thinks, Allan. We had Ryan in at the club last night. Decent enough bloke, really, but he can't hold his drink. Anyway, we got to talking, and there are a few people a bit worried about Ramirez. Oh, he's got the public sewn up, no doubts about that, but the De'Molay.... well, if even half of what Ryan's been telling me is true, then it's as far ahead of the Morningstar as that was ahead of the pre-war ships. And you really don't want to put a ship that powerful or valuable in the hands of someone who put down on his CV that one of his life's ambitions is to 'die with honour'. He might try and ram it into a Vorlon cruiser or something.

"Tikopai's the choice, they just haven't announced it yet. Ramirez is going to get offered a second's place, maybe on the De'Molay, maybe on the Dark Thunder. They haven't decided yet. Anyway, Fenn and Linton have got odds of twelve to one on Tikopai, so I'd bet the farm on her."

"Hey. Will do. Thanks for the news."

"No problem. Anyway, I'd better be going. This place don't run itself, you know. Let me know the instant you get anything through on the woman.... and just keep an eye on Smith. Don't do anything.... but let me know if he leaves three-o-one for any reason."

"Will do. See you later."

The screen returned to its main image, and Zack sat back, thinking. Trace wasn't actually that bad a person.... really. Besides, he didn't have many friends these days.

He lounged back on his chair, contemplated looking over the case backlog, decided against it, and switched on the vidscreen. There was a classic Reebo and Zooty on.

"What are you doing here?" Londo asked. "You are aware that we are meant to be at war, aren't you?"

"No," replied his visitor, with perfect aplomb. "I must have missed that. I have been a little indisposed these past few years, after all." G'Kar smiled. "I still have a few agents here on Centauri Prime, if you care to remember. Minister Cotto and your bodyguard were more than capable of smuggling me in here, and they'll be just as capable of getting me out."

"Why didn't you let me know you were here?" Londo asked, moving forward. He went to his drinks cabinet and began studying the bottles carefully. There must be some decent-quality brivare around.

"You are the Emperor these days, Mollari. I could hardly just beep you and let you know I would be in town. Congratulations on your ascension, by the way."

"Congratulations," he repeated hollowly. "Yes...." He poured himself a glass and drained it quickly. He then began to pour another one. "I have never craved power.... All I wanted to do was heal my people."

"Was there any other way to do that?"

"I don't know. A question I have been asking myself a great many times recently. I was never born to rule, G'Kar." He turned and offered a bottle to his companion. The Narn shook his head with a grimace. Londo smiled, and replaced it on the shelf. "But now I am here.... I never wanted this."

"Power.... is a great burden."

"Yes, I suppose it is. How is it that you are.... um.... in the flesh these days? I heard there was a battle at the Great Machine, but alas, news has been very slow to reach us recently."

"There was a battle, yes," G'Kar said slowly, bowing his head. "A hard-fought one. Too many died. The Great Machine is lost.... to all of us now."

"Great Maker," Londo breathed. "It was that bad?"

"It was that bad. It took me.... some time to heal. We lost many."

"Delenn," Londo breathed. "Is she...?"

"Alive," G'Kar nodded. "Heartsick and weary.... but alive."

"Thank the Great Maker. I miss her, you know. The time we were together.... on that insane little quest you sent us on.... Ah, I am no doubt crazy for thinking this, and I am sure I am forgetting some details.... but I would far rather be doing all that again.... than be here. Am I crazy?"

"You always have been, so I see no reason why you should stop merely because you wear a fancy coronet and sit on a comfortable chair."

"Comfortable? Bah.... you should try that infernal throne! I have never sat anywhere less comfortable."

"Methinks the Emperor doth protest too much."

"No. Trust me on this. I would rather sit on the floor, but I fear my entire Government would have an apoplexy if I did that. They are having enough trouble adjusting to there being a woman in their midst. I do not know.... you would think they had never seen one before."

Londo paused, and sipped at his drink. It tasted painfully bitter. "So, old friend," he said. "What brings you to my home?"

"A hope that, this time.... I can get right, what I failed to do last time." Londo assumed a quizzical expression. "I tried to hold a summit in the middle of last year.... hoping to get all the major allies together.... so that everyone could work as one to fight the Enemy. We were.... unfortunately interrupted. The war has now started in earnest.... and we must all learn to recognise who our real enemies are. There must be peace between our two races, Mollari.... We must both ready our forces to fight the real Enemy."

"Peace.... that I can support," Londo said thoughtfully. "But war with these Shadows.... No, G'Kar. We are too weak for that.... far too weak. I will not commit myself to a war we cannot win."

"You did so easily enough once before. Do you remember? When first we met?"

"I remember.... and you are the second person recently to remind me of an old promise. But my response to you is the same as it was to him. I am no landless, rootless wanderer now. I am Emperor of the Centauri Republic, leader of billions of people! I will not throw their lives away needlessly by committing to a war that cannot be won."

"It can be won, Mollari."

"That remains to be seen. However.... I do want peace between Narn and Centauri. Whether my generals and my people want it.... is another matter. But my Government will support such an initiative.... of that I am sure. What are you proposing? An embassy here?"

"Well.... not here as such. I had somewhat.... loftier ideas."

"I am listening."

"The Kha'Ri appointed an Ambassador to the United Alliance at Kazomi Seven some months ago. I believe there have been hopes that the Narn Regime will join the Alliance. How would the Centauri Republic react if invited to join the Alliance?"

Londo paused, and drained his drink. "That.... would be a difficult question. That would involve us in conflicts not our own.... We wish our captured lands returned to us.... we wish an end to the war.... and we want a chance to rebuild our shattered world.

"However.... speaking from a position of some influence within the Centauri Republic, I can say that we would at least be open to the idea. I was in the process of appointing an Ambassador to Kazomi Seven, just as soon as I could find an honest man to fit the position."

"Then.... why do you not gain further information from which to make such a choice?"

"I do not understand."

"Visit Kazomi Seven yourself."

Londo began to laugh.

Sonovar was thinking about him again.

Sinoval. The Primarch Nominus et Corpus. Entil'zha. Holy One of the Grey Council. Warleader of the Wind Swords clan.

An impressive list of titles. Completely unnecessary, of course. An affectation, or possibly a symptom. Sinoval was as interested in the trappings of power as he was in the power itself. Oh, of course he wanted to command great armies, to decide policy and fate, to will the stars to fade at his whim.... but the accumulation of all those titles spoke of something else. A need for a greater glory.

On the other hand, Sinoval had abandoned all of those lately, hadn't he? He kept only the name of Primarch, and that had been thrust upon him by the Soul Hunters.

We are not as different as either of us would wish, he mused, looking up at the Tak'cha ceremony going on around him.

Sonovar himself had chosen to give up the bulk of the titles he had amassed over the years. He bore only the name of Zaron'dar, a mouthful which the Tak'cha had given him. He supposed it meant something to them, unless it was just a corruption of his name.

What had he told Sinoval's pretty worker? "My name will be title enough." Had he even told her that? Maybe he'd just thought about it.

Oh well.

The Tak'cha were performing some sort of weird ceremony. Ramde Cozon had tried to explain it to him, something about favourable stellar configurations, the will of the Z'ondar and the anniversary of the Feast of Sperethiel, or some such. Sonovar recognised Sperethiel, actually. There had been a great battle fought there, where Valen and the Tak'cha had routed a fleet of the Shadows' allies. It had been one of the last major engagements the Tak'cha had fought before being banished from Valen's side.

Now that had been a truly foolish decision. What if the Tak'cha were a little.... obsessive? It just made them easier to control. Valen must have been a fool indeed. A good bureaucracy, and advisors he could trust, that had probably been the secret of his success.

Sonovar had neither advantage, but all that meant was that he would have to work harder. There was no problem so large, so insurmountable that it could not be solved with enough hard work.

He was still musing on this and watching the ceremony when he became aware of a soft hiss at his side. He turned, and started as he saw Forell there. He bit back an angry retort and accepted that he really should have got used to this by now. Forell seemed to make appearing out of nowhere a habit. How could he possibly move so damned quietly?

Still, best not to let him realise just how rattled it made him. A great leader was always careful not to let those who followed him see any sign of weakness.

"He has returned, great lord," Forell whispered in a conspiratorial tone. He was probably enjoying this, being so close to the Great Lord Sonovar. Well, let him. One as worthless as Forell was hardly worthy of any consideration.

There was no need to ask who 'he' was. "Where is he?"

"In your audience chamber, great lord."

"Did he succeed?"

"That is something he will have to tell you himself, great lord."

Sonovar instinctively raised his fist, then lowered it again. He could not let Forell see how excited he was. If 'he' had succeeded, then.... No.... No point making plans from an outcome he could not predict. "How is he?"

"Slightly injured, but not seriously. I took the liberty of asking Tirivail to look at him."

Sonovar glanced up at the ceremony, and decided it was not likely to be finished for another few hours. He had plenty of time to return to his ship and learn the results of his latest plan. He left the chamber without a word, Forell obediently tagging along behind him.

Neither of them said anything during the shuttle journey back to the ship. Sonovar did not want to speak, and Forell obviously knew better than to disturb his 'Great Lord'. Sonovar was thinking about him again. Sinoval. If this plan had worked.... if it had worked, then Sinoval's power would be broken. Completely. If....

One look at Kozorr's face, and Sonovar knew he had failed.

Biting back a curse, he glanced across at Tirivail. She had been one of the first to swear herself to his side, one of the surviving members of Kalain's Grey Council, and a fine warrior. She knew where the true future of the Minbari lay, which was more than could be said for her sister. She had also been making appreciative eyes at Kozorr for a while now. Sonovar glared at her and she left, whispering something to Kozorr as she did so. He started as if stung, and then nodded.

"I failed," Kozorr said, as soon as he and Sonovar were alone.

"Tell me," Sonovar replied.

"It was.... incredible. I had no idea. Nothing prepared me for...." He shook his head. "They call it the Well of Souls. It's the base for the entirety of Cathedral's power, just as you told me. But it's.... so much more than you said. It seems to be an entire collection of souls, all joined together. Some of them from races I've never even heard of. I wouldn't be surprised if it's older than Cathedral itself."

"You couldn't destroy it?"

Kozorr shook his head. "A million warriors couldn't have destroyed that thing. It.... summoned creatures up to fight me. Beings I've heard about only in myths and legends and rumours. No, I'm sorry, Sonovar. It can't be destroyed that way. Maybe not at all."

Sonovar swore, but then he lifted his head. Fine. A failure, but not a catastrophic one. They had valuable information now, knowledge they had not had before. And perhaps the ruse was not over with yet. "Sinoval?" he asked, trying to conceal how much hatred he felt at the speaking of that name.

"He knows. He let me go. He let me come back to you."

"Overconfident. That's always been his flaw. Much too overconfident. And...." He paused. "What about.... her? Your pretty little worker?" Kats. It had been her Sonovar had to thank for so many of his recent victories. Kozorr's love for her had made it possible to trap him and turn him against Sinoval.

"She cried when she saw me."

"Do you think she loves you as you love her?"

"I.... don't...." He sighed. "I don't know. How can she? He is there. I'm not. He is able to share her life, he can talk to her, praise her beauty and her courage.... tell her just how I've betrayed all of them." He rose to his feet, and in one swift motion extended his short, one-handed pike.

"I want to be worthy of her!" he cried, striking the pike against the wall.

"You will be. You are here, after all. You have chosen your own path, not one chosen for you by another. We have time. You will prove worthy of her.... in her eyes, and your own." In some strange way, Sonovar really did hope Kats chose Kozorr instead of Sinoval. He actually liked the little worker, which was strange. She had been so pretty as she had defied him, and her tears when she had thought Kozorr was dead....

"Stay here and rest for a while. We've lost nothing but time, and that is on our side far more than his. I'll send Tirivail back to you. Meanwhile, I think I've got to get back to that ritual something-or-other. I swear to you, sometimes it's as bad as being around the priestlings."

Kozorr chuckled, and nodded. Sonovar left.

Forell was standing outside the room, the recipient of very dark glares from Tirivail. Nobody trusted Sonovar's scarred and mutilated advisor, but Sonovar did not mind, for he did not trust him either. Still, the cripple had his uses.

"What now, great lord?"

And one of those uses was as a sounding-board.

"Now.... hmm.... Smaller scale, I think. Raids on Alliance shipping lanes. See if we can frame Sinoval for this. After all, the only Minbari warships around are his, correct? I'm not sure how long that deception can last, but it will be good for something.

"And the Tak'cha.... They can do what they can to paralyse trade to Tarolin Two. Sinoval's 'empire' is still small. With a bit of work, we might be able to stop it getting any bigger. Yes, and then...."

He carried on talking. Forell merely listened, and occasionally he smiled. That was a truly hideous sight.

She had never been in this part of the capital before, in spite of the fact that it was a mere half-an-hour's walk from the Palace itself. But then, a well-bred, ambitious lady of the Court would have no reason to come to such an area.

Mariel had always prided herself on knowing a little more than most ladies of her station. Knowledge was power after all, and it never hurt to have a few snippets of information that might, over the course of time, possibly be of some minor use. Where to find a good poisoner, for example, or just who exactly was carrying on which indiscretions with whom.

She had always had ambition, and had dared to hope this might one day take her to as high a position as a lady could reach in Centauri society. It was bitterly ironic that, had she done nothing and sat at home like a good, dutiful little wife, she would now be at that zenith, instead of that.... that harridan Timov.

Mariel had spent the last few months under virtual house arrest at Londo's estate outside the capital. She was unclear exactly what Londo-dear knew about her part in the attack on Kiro's estate, but it was clear he knew something. Or possibly he just generally suspected her of misdoing, not entirely unjustifiably. House arrest, no doubt telling all his friends she was 'indisposed' or 'ill' was about the only proper solution. You couldn't execute a lady of the Court after all, and certainly not the wife of the Emperor.

She had been incredibly bored these last few months and had entertained herself in whatever trivial ways she could. Seducing the captain of the guards set to watch her had provided a moment's diversion, but apart from that she had been reduced to embroidery, other vacuous pursuits and keeping up with the news from the capital, which Londo had insisted on giving her. Only one piece of information had made her happy — and that was the news of the discovery of Elrisia's charred remains.

Plotting a means of escape from her 'prison' had been easy enough, but what was the point of escape, if there was nowhere to escape to? Not until she had received that.... strange message, had she any plan for what to do after leaving the estate.

It had come the day before, pushed into her hands by a common servant, one she didn't think she had seen before. That was not unusual, she rarely paid any attention to her servants. The message itself had been scrawled in a powerful, authoritarian hand and had been simple. A set of directions, and the word 'Come'.

And so, out of boredom, excitement and eager for a chance to escape this dreary prison, she had come.

The directions had been to the merchants' area of the capital, to the warehouse district. She had never been here before, but the directions had been surprisingly clear, and she soon found herself at the building. It seemed abandoned to her, and she remembered hearing that trade had been slacking off due to the.... troubles earlier in the year. Jarno had spoken of little else, she recalled with a sigh. What did trade matter? Let merchants deal with such things, wasn't that what they were for?

She looked around, wondering why there didn't seem to be anyone there. It was night, and the lanterns and lights of the Court seemed far away. The area was more run-down than she had thought possible.

There was a sudden movement behind her, and a man appeared out of the darkness. He was dressed in rags and dirt, but what was left of his clothing proclaimed him a serf. A peasant. "You are late," he said in a firm voice, one filled with power.

She was about to reprimand him for his insolence when she caught his eyes, and recoiled. They were blazing with an impassioned madness, fury and a yearning for revenge. She knew what he was now, and she began to tremble.

"Still," he continued. "It does not matter. The Lord will see you now." She turned, about to leave, when his hand caught her arm in a tight grip. "The Shadows have whispered to our Lord, and he has summoned you here. You cannot decline his will. You cannot ignore your destiny."

She cried out in pain as his grip on her arm tightened. He abruptly let go and pulled his arm away. "He is this way," he said, gesturing towards the side doors of the warehouse.

Hesitantly she stepped inside, knowing that there was little hope of flight. Her mind was beginning to calm, and she could see the possibilities here. So, these.... people had a social structure of their own. The peasant had spoken of a Lord, no doubt a grubby little madman.... But still, where there was a structure and a Lord, then Mariel was more than capable of attaching herself to his side.

The warehouse was dark, and she stumbled at first. "She is here, great lord," said the peasant at her side. He moved forward easily, and she could only just hear the sound of his movements. He seemed able to see perfectly.

"Who is there?" she asked. "Who...? I can't see anything."

"Fire," whispered a stern voice, and a light blazed by her side, and at various points throughout the room. Blinking, she looked in the direction of the person who had spoken, and the breath caught in her throat.

It was Lord Kiro. He was holding a small torch in his hand, examining it closely, with affection. The flame seemed to reflect from his skin and shine in his eyes, which were filled with the same madness as the peasant's. His once-fine clothes were reduced to rags, but he wore them with the authority of an Emperor. The marks of his torture still remained on his skin and face, but he wore them proudly.

"Fire," he said again, studying the flame in the torch. "It is a purifying instrument of all that is holy. The Darkness speaks to me through it, as it speaks to us all. Fire is the tool the Darkness will use to purge all that is wrong and wicked and flawed from our world, so that all may be rebuilt."

He raised his head and looked directly at her. "Fire.... It purified the Lady Elrisia, or so I am told. Come to me."

She hesitated, and contemplated turning and bolting for the door, but strong hands grabbed her and pushed her forward, throwing her to the floor at Kiro's feet. As she looked up, she saw that the chair on which he sat had been made up into a mockery of the Purple Throne on which Londo was probably sitting even now.

Kiro bent over and held the torch next to her. She cried out and shrank away.

"The Darkness speaks to me," he hissed. "It speaks to us all. The Centauri have always been the most favoured of all races. We have been gifted with the talent of future sight. We see that which is to come. We see our own deaths. We see.... so many things.

"We see the Darkness that is to come. It speaks to us. Does it speak to you?"

"Yes!" she cried out instantly. "Yes.... it speaks to me. I can hear it."

"What is it telling you?" he whispered, his face so near to hers.

She thought quickly. Flattery was always a powerful weapon. "It tells me that.... it tells me that you are its chosen servant.... you are the one who will be raised above all others, and that I am to serve you and obey you in all things.... for you are our Lord.... and our saviour, and our master."

"You lie," he said, smiling. He sat back, and resumed his contemplation of the flame. "But it is of no matter. I had you brought here to thank you." He brushed his hand through the flame, and smiled, closing his eyes. "You began the process of my purification. You brought me to the flame, and with your scourge and your pain I was made anew, all the better to receive the wisdom of the Darkness.

"I brought you here to thank you for that.... and to reward you. The day will come when I will sit on the Purple Throne, and you will sit there beside me, and the two of us.... we will rule a world of flame and death.... and the Darkness will speak through us all. The Darkness will come."

"The Darkness will come," whispered countless voices from the shadows.

"I am.... honoured, Lord," she whispered. "Deeply honoured. I.... I understand the role for which I have been chosen."

"No," he said. "You do not. Not yet. But you will." He held the torch close to her face, and smiled. "You will."

She did not scream. She was a Lady of the Royal Court, and she would not scream. And she did not. And by the time it was over she did understand, and she did see, and the Darkness did speak through her.

The shuttle emerged from hyperspace and Delenn looked out at the dark world below her. She had seen Z'ha'dum before, but only in visions and dreams and whispers of the what-would-be and what-might-have-been. This was the first time she had ever seen the place itself.

Shadow ships were waiting for her, a great many of them. A message was coming to her ship.

She was not afraid, she had embraced her destiny here. She knew what she had to do, and why she had to do it.

She had come to Z'ha'dum to make atonement for the sins of her past, to make amends for the future, and ultimately, she had come to Z'ha'dum to die.