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

Part 8 : Meditations and Introspections.

And at last, after all these years, it was over. Not just one war, but all of them. All wars. All the wars that had been, that would ever be. They were all over.

The Shadows had gone, departed for a new life beyond the Rim. Z'ha'dum was a safe world now, one that would never again threaten the younger races of the galaxy. From far above the grim and dead planet, Vorlon ships waited, guarding the world, preventing anything from coming.... or going.

The Narn / Centauri War was over. Both races were now members of the United Alliance. Both races had ambassadors on Kazomi 7. The peace treaty had been signed. The borders had been fixed. Both armies would return home.

Above all, there was the Alliance. The United Alliance of Kazomi 7, protector of the galaxy, led by the Blessed Delenn and kept safe by the Dark Star fleet and their renowned General John Sheridan, the Shadowkiller.

The wars were over. All that remained was a little mopping up.

She had had a name once. A name that she sometimes still remembered, a name she sometimes heard in conversation. Her Captain spoke it to her often. She knew his name. David Corwin. He knew her name, but when he was not aboard her, she did not.

She was the essence of the Dark Star 3. The Agamemnon, one of the few ships of the Dark Star fleet to have a name. A name. It was not her name. It was the ship's name. There was a confusing separation there. Her name was not Agamemnon, she knew that, but it was the name of the ship.

Somehow, on some level, she was beginning to recognise that she and the ship were not one and the same. That spoke against everything, but when he was here, it made sense.

He was not here now. She could feel him, but not talk to him. He had been called away on a matter of some urgency. He was an important man, with many responsibilities.

Captain David Corwin. She knew his name. Once she had known her own, but the light had come, and had grown stronger and stronger. There had been screams within the light, and some of them she had been able to identify. Some of them she had even been able to name.

But now all the screams were becoming one. The network was consolidating. Those newly brought into it were losing their identities, their names, their faces.

She still had hers. A little. She had a name. She knew at least that much. She even knew someone who knew it.

The screaming all stopped, and there was silence. Total and utter silence. She looked around, seeing nothing but darkness.

"Captain," she said. "Are you there?"

said a voice, a voice that came from nowhere and everywhere.

She knew that voice. It was the voice of God. He was talking to her, His voice echoing throughout the silence.

She meant to ask something, perhaps what was going to happen to her, perhaps what her name was, but she never had the chance. The light returned, brighter and more powerful than before, and it scourged everything from her, memory, mind and soul.

She died, in a sense, never recalling that her name had once been Carolyn Sanderson. In another, more real sense, she would be alive forever, with only the dark and silent void to mask her own screams.

It was a ship only of the dead, a place where a man who had striven all his life for greatness had faced his end, screaming to the heavens in defiance, promising revenge, pleading for mercy. It was a ship where the Enemy had sent one of their darkest, oldest and most powerful minions to destroy someone they had only ever seen as a tool.

It was the place where Sonovar had died.

The ship had been left where it was, a ghost ship to give rise to myth and legend. Maybe, in decades to come, young warriors would search for it, seeking it out as wanderers sought the Holy Grail, the Sathra Stone, the lost worlds of the First Ones and other legends.

He knew of the legends that would come, that Sonovar was not truly dead, that he would return when the time was right. His creed, wrought of inferiority and near–insanity, would rise again, and others would follow in his footsteps, dreaming of the day when Sonovar the Great would return.

So be it. The Minbari now carried their own destiny. Let them dream of lost heroes. That was their place. Besides, in one respect, they would be right. Sonovar was not dead.

Somewhere, in a wall in one of the oldest space–faring vessels in the galaxy, was a globe, within which raged a spirit, cursing the denial of his chance at reincarnation.

In a thousand years, he would return. There always had to be a balance. Sonovar did not understand that now, but he would. There was enough time for both of them to learn.

For now, this was a ship only of the dead. Which was fine, for it was the dead that Sinoval, Primarch Majestus et Conclavus, had come to meet.

He found the chamber where the final battle had taken place, where he and Sonovar had fought the undead monster the Shadows had sent against him. Sonovar's body lay where the last breath had left it, slumped in the corner, the wounds from the Shadow Beast still terrifyingly visible.

"You had decided for yourself by the end, Sonovar," Sinoval said softly. "You knew what you were, and what more can any of us ask for?"

He said nothing more. It was not Sonovar he had come to see.

He sensed the new arrival long before he heard or saw or smelled him. Sinoval had trained his five senses as well as anyone, and his perception was acute. Lately, however, he had discovered a new sense one of life and death, one of many minds speaking and thinking as one. The Well of Souls was a part of him now, just as he was a part of them.

Then came the smell, the smell of death. He knew who it was to be then, and straightened, his hand brushing against Stormbringer, his darkly forged pike. A soft warmth greeted his touch, one that he could sense even through the fabric of his glove.

"Greetings, Primarch," said the voice, one filled with age and understanding and great wisdom.

"Greetings, Forell," he replied. "Or would you prefer another name?"

Even without his new senses, he could tell that the thing before him was a dead body. He had been a warrior before he was a Soul Hunter, and he had been one of the best. Even a child could see that the wounds that marked Forell's body were fatal. Half of them would have been fatal. But still he moved, still he spoke, still a dark light shone within his eyes.

It was Sinoval's other senses that could detect the dark cloud hovering above the Minbari's body, sense the forces moving him, manipulating the husk for their own purposes.

For one, final message.

"Names are forgotten now," he said. "We are the nameless, the lost, the reviled. All we wanted to do was help them to the stars. How did you know to come here again?"

"I just knew."

A faint, revolting smile touched Forell's mangled face. "As we knew you would."

"You have a message for me, yes?"

"Yes. One last message.

"For millennia we tried to create people, to change the younger races for the better, to mould them and shape them and make them better, make them better in every way there is. We wished to show them the stars.

"The being we tried to create is you. You, Primarch, are a force of pure chaos, a bringer of anarchy. Where you walk, buildings crumble, cities die. You bring change. You brought change to your people, to the Soul Hunters, to Cathedral. You are everything we wished the younger races to be.

"But now we are gone. We are lost and reviled. Our teachings will not be remembered. Our ways will be forgotten. They have won.... or so they think. Let them have their brief triumph. Let them have their single few moments of cold, sterile, passionless order.

"We have you.

"Destroy them all. For us. For yourself. It does not matter. They tried to kill you. They will try to destroy your people. They will try to destroy the whole galaxy, by making them things they are not. There can never be order, never be the uniformity they demand! And in demanding it, their discipline will go so far as to leave only death behind. Only the dead are ordered."

"No," Sinoval replied dryly. "They aren't. Believe me. I know."

Forell smiled again. "You would. Well then, not even the dead are safe from them. You are the only hope now, not just for us, but for all that lives.

"Avenge us! Remember us! Help them all to the stars. Free them from order, before it kills them all."

"A galaxy of order will destroy all that lives, yes," Sinoval said softly. "But so would a galaxy of only chaos. Did you ever realise that?"

"No.... but now we do. Such is the prerogative of hindsight. After all, why do you think we left?"

"You have told me nothing I did not already know, and everything you have asked of me, I would do already. Maybe you made me too well. Or maybe I just made myself."

"Maybe. Well, our last message is delivered. Now we can rest."

"Wait! There is one thing I wanted to know. One thing you can tell me."

"Yes?"

"What is it like.... beyond the Rim?"

Forell smiled again, and in that one instant, everything changed. The hatred, the anger, the death.... everything was gone, replaced only by a child–like sense of wonder, a sense that even the oldest who lived could find something new.

"Beautiful," was all he said. "Truly beautiful."

Then the body slumped to the ground, dead once more. Sinoval smiled slightly, and turned to leave.

Once again, and for ever more, it was a ship only of the dead.

It was going to be a beautiful day.

The sun rose slowly, the sky becoming crimson, the land becoming alive again. A dead world, one devastated and torn and poisoned, was now coming slowly, ever so slowly, back to life.

Satai Kats saw the sun rise as she arrived back on Minbar, and she smiled. This world was her home again. It was the home of all her people again. It was the home of the new Grey Council.

For a thousand years they had remained among the stars, distant from their people, both literally and figuratively. No longer. The Grey Council were of the people now, and would be so always. They would work with the people, live and die with the people.

It was ironic, she thought. But after Kalain's purge, and the bombardment and the wars and all the grief and the loss and the torture, it was the worker caste who had changed Minbar. It was their philosophies and beliefs that had changed the Minbari people.

Oh, some of the warriors lived still, but Takier was the last vestige of an old way, and he knew it. Also, unlike many of his caste, he had accepted it. Tirivail and Lanniel were the new order of warriors, changed, stronger, wiser.

And, although no one mentioned his name, although he was reviled and hated, everyone knew who was responsible.

They called him the Cursed, but Kats would never think of him that way. Never.

Her heart soared at seeing her home again. Kazomi 7 was a wonderful place, filled with majesty and power and hope, but Minbar was her home. It was good to be back.

Of course, her good mood had more than just her return home to recommend it. Someone was waiting for her.

Her husband. Ah, that felt good, just imagining it. Her true love, her protector. Her husband, the man who had abandoned caste simply to be with her.

She knew exactly where he would be this morning. On the balcony of their quarters, watching the sun rise, marvelling at the joy of life. She wished nothing more than to be with him now, looking at their brave new world together, not talking in words, but communicating in ways for which words would never suffice.

She moved through their home quickly. There were servants, a concept she did not entirely like, but accepted. It was a noble position to work, was it not? She smiled at them, and shared a few words with each. She was not surprised to be told that her Kozorr was on the balcony.

The sun hit her eyes as she stepped out onto it, and blinked quickly. He was there, sitting still and silent, looking out across the horizon at their world. His leg had been crippled two years ago, protecting her, but he preferred to stand rather than sit where possible. Now he sat anyway. Once he would have been too proud to admit he needed to sit, and would have stood until his leg gave way and he collapsed.

Now he was different, changed. Both of them were.

She moved up beside him and knelt down at his side, looking up into his face.

He was still, and his eyes were staring directly at the sun, unblinking.

His hand was cold.

Somehow, she had always known this day would come. Sinoval had not told her everything, she had sensed that, but she had not wanted to ask, not wanted to know. Kozorr had been brought back to life surely that could not have been forever, but equally surely they deserved a chance at their new life.

Gently, Kats kissed his cold hand, and laid her head against it, looking at the sun until a cloud passed over it. Then she began to make preparations for the funeral.

The news of her death hit him suddenly and unexpectedly, completely out of the blue. It should have been over now. There should not have had to be any more deaths. Not one.

But this?

"I'm sorry, David," Lianna said softly. "It was just.... one of those things. She must have been feeling ill for months, but she didn't tell anyone. Not even me. We needed doctors and she just kept working. But.... then.... it was too late...."

"There's nothing.... nothing anyone can do," Corwin whispered. "Nothing."

Lianna shook her head. "She didn't even want me telling you, but.... You have a right to know, I think. It's too late now anyway. I got her a nice plaque on the wall. There isn't room for graves, you see."

"I understand. I'd.... I'd like to come and see it. If that's all right?"

"Of course it is. Why wouldn't it be?"

"Given the way we ended it. And well.... with Michael...."

Lianna shrugged. "Old news now. Not that I don't miss him, but.... No, I do miss him. every single day I miss him, but mostly I can get by. I'm even.... well, I'm seeing someone new. He's nice."

"Oh."

"Don't judge me, David. Please. It's been a year and a half now. Besides, Frank needs a father. Believe me. I know."

"I know. I wasn't. How is Frank?"

"Boisterous," Lianna smiled. "He's going to be a lot like his father. I can't tell whether that's a good thing or not yet, though. And you. I've been hearing things. Even all the way out here. The war never got to us, but you did. Mary read everything she could find about you, and insisted on boring us all with it."

"It was.... mostly over–rated."

"Come on. If even half of what we heard was true.... Well.... a lot of people owe you a lot."

"I didn't do half as much as I could have. It doesn't matter now. It's over. It's all over."

"The war?"

"Everything. It's going to be different now. Very different. All most of us have ever known is how to fight. Now.... we're going to have to learn something much harder. How to live."

"You'll be fine. It gets easier, David. Believe me. It never stops hurting, but it does get easier." Lianna paused. "Mary never stopped loving you."

"I don't think I ever stopped loving her. I'll.... I'll come over and see you and Frank as soon as I can. There's still a bit of mopping up to do over here. The Dark Stars are still going to be needed, but I think I can get some personal leave."

"You deserve it."

He paused. "Lianna. Have you heard anything about.... Bester?"

"No, not a word. People are saying he's dead."

"I don't believe that."

"No, me neither. I guess he'll come back when he's ready. Whatever he's done.... he never did anything wrong by me or Michael."

"I guess not. Look, I'd better go. Something's bound to come up soon that needs my attention."

"Yeah, probably. David?"

"Yes."

"Take care."

The signal ended, and Corwin stepped back from the screen. Slowly, each movement jerky and painful, he went over to his desk and pulled something out. It was a small box. He opened it. Inside was a wedding ring.

He had never stopped loving her, but sometimes love involved letting go. Right? He had told himself that a thousand times, and he had never hated her for leaving. Never. She had just seen her best friend's husband die in an ultimately pointless display of heroism, and she could not bear being with someone likely to die in the same way.

He had told himself the war would soon be over, and that when it was.... he would find her, go to her, and ask her again. He would give up being a soldier, give it all up and just live peacefully.

And now she was dead. Gone. Never to return.

He had seen some wonderful things, some terrifying things in his life. He had seen Z'ha'dum, Vorlon fleets, the terrifying presence of the Drakh, even Cathedral, a legend filled with beings who could save the dead.

And yet there had been no one to save Mary when she had died of a tumour. Something that mundane and banal. In a life where he had been threatened by Minbari, Drakh, Shadows, countless alien races, even his own people, to have the woman he loved die of something so.... normal.

He put the ring down. He could hardly believe it.

That was when the scream hit him. Light filled his mind and he fell, her scream echoing from every wall, from every sense. He could feel her pain, and he could feel her die.

"Carolyn," he whispered, as he slipped into unconsciousness.

This was unusual, unprecedented. Unique even.

The Well of Souls certainly thought so.

Sinoval had been standing on the pinnacle of Cathedral, looking out at the galaxy, thinking deep thoughts and formulating his plans. He was working out how much time he had to prepare, where to go to first. The war was over now. It would take time for the Vorlons to secure their control over the galaxy. He had time to be ready to resist them.

That was when he sensed the warning from the Well of Souls. It was not in words, more a feeling, but that did not matter. He could sense it.

Intruder.

Somehow, someone had got into the Well of Souls itself. No one entered there without the permission of the Well, without paying the price demanded, or without the permission of the Primarch himself. No Soul Hunter would dare go there unless summoned, and who else was there? Cathedral was in a dead system, hidden, walking on the edges of perception.

The Vorlons? Were they launching an attack this early? That would mean they had managed to find him so quickly, which he did not believe. The Shadows? Was that whole meeting with Forell some sort of gambit, a deception to set the seeds for revenge?

Or was this something else entirely?

Sinoval moved forward and stepped off the pinnacle. Nothingness welcomed him as he fell. He shaped it to his will, much as the whole of Cathedral was so bound. He was now the master of Cathedral, the voice of the Well of Souls, as the previous Primarch had been before him.

Space shimmered around him, hyperspace moved, and he could see the sparkling lights of the million spirits that made up the Well of Souls, an entity constructed of the last remnants of the first race of the galaxy, of those they collected. A memorial to pride and sin and mistakes.

And also, howling just beyond the horizon, were the monsters of the other world. Beings cast out and banished from this reality, kept in their own dimension, just waiting for an opportunity to break through.

A problem for another day, if ever.

The vast chamber appeared around him as Sinoval alighted gracefully. He could see the sparkling lights of the soul globes, feel the souls within them. Not trapped, not prisoners. They were free, more so than anyone he knew.

"Are you there?" he asked, knowing full well the answer. He was still not experienced enough to have fully adjusted to the other ways of speaking.

We are always here, came their voice, a multitude of voices and languages and thoughts in one.

"There is someone here. An intruder." There was little point in looking manually. The Well was infinite, or practically so. It was shaped by the wills and desires of those that had given it form so long ago. Much easier to find this intruder by asking the Well itself. "Where?"

Always here. She came by invitation, by ancient right.

"What right?" Sinoval asked. There was a great deal about the Well he did not know. Although theoretically the entire Well was open to him, he could immerse himself in it until every star in the galaxy died and he would still not know everything.

The First sent her here. To talk, Primarch. To talk with you.

"That would be my cue, I think."

From nowhere, or perhaps from everywhere, a human woman appeared. She was tall, with long brown hair. Sinoval supposed she would be considered pretty by humans, except for the scars adorning the side of her face and the hideous damage to one eye. She was dressed in a simple human uniform of grey and black, and seemed unarmed.

Of course, appearances were often deceptive.

"And you are?"

"A messenger. Or an ally. Maybe a friend, that I don't know yet. God knows I've no reason to like you.... but the past is over, hmm? I've got a message for you."

"I am listening."

"You're doing this the wrong way."

"Doing what, exactly?"

"This. All of this. Let me see if I get this right. You want to bring down the Vorlons, yes. You want to defeat them, cast them down, sow their ground with salt, blow their planets apart from space. You want to destroy them."

"I want to destroy them, yes. This is not their galaxy any longer. What they are doing is wrong."

"Right, dead on in fact. But why is it wrong? Because it's only half of what's there. They lie and they deceive and now they think they've won, but they haven't. They'll destroy everything they're trying to save and not realise what they're doing. Their balance is gone now, gone for good, and it won't be coming back. Everything's skewed.

"That's where you come in.

"You're going to build an army, right? You've got the Soul Hunters, you've got this insanely cool flying castle here, you've got a hidden planet somewhere full of Vindrizi. You're going to put together an army and challenge the Vorlons.

"It won't work."

"Why not?"

"You can't beat them with weapons. All you can do that way is kill them, and that won't work. You'll just replace them with something worse. Maybe even yourself."

"I have no wish to rule. Not any longer."

"You say that now. Hell, people can change. I certainly have. You have to change your thinking as well. This isn't a war you can win with weapons. Oh, they'll be a part of it, but they aren't it. You need the truth. The Vorlons aren't necessary any longer. All of us, all the younger races.... we can make it to the stars on our own. We don't need them.

"Of course, that would sound a lot better if I'd worked it out for myself instead of being told it by someone even older than the Vorlons, but what are you going to do, hmm?"

"I'm going to listen to you, it appears. So what do I do next?"

"Gather allies. Narn, Centauri, Drazi, Minbari.... even us. Tell them the truth. Tell them we can do this by ourselves. Once enough of us know, and believe, then there won't be a thing the Vorlons can do about it. Not one single thing."

"Believe it or not, that was exactly my plan. I may not be as military–minded as you or the First seem to think."

She shrugged. "Ah, well. There you go. Looks like I was a little redundant after all."

"I wouldn't say that. All alliances have to begin somewhere after all." Sinoval extended his hand. A human gesture, but one whose meaning he understood, and even respected after a fashion. "You know who I am."

"Oh, yes." She took it. "I'm Susan Ivanova. Nice to meet you."

"David, I'm sorry. What can I say? We examined the Dark Star Three and.... there was a fuel line rupture. It could have gone undetected for years, and it really couldn't be fixed. We decided it was better to.... well, scuttle it. We did tell you."

"No, John. You didn't."

John Sheridan sighed. "I'm sorry. We did send a message to you. Something obviously happened. Look, I'm sorry, but you saw a lot of action in that ship. It was bound to happen. I know how.... attached we can get to our ships sometimes. I felt the same way with the Babylon. Look, the new Dark Star line will be ready in just a couple of months. I'll guarantee you the first one we get. And your crew as well. What do you say to that?"

What could he say? He could still hear Carolyn screaming. He would always hear her screaming. She would scream forever, her soul, her mind, her personality absorbed into that terrible network.

And now more Dark Star fleets were coming. More trapped telepaths. More nameless screams.

"David, I've got to go. There's a meeting with the Drazi Ambassador any minute now. They want increased patrols around their border. Something about the Streib. They're a bit.... touchy at the moment. God knows, it took Delenn long enough to get them to change their mind about taking Kazomi Seven back. I'll talk to you later."

The signal ended, and David reeled back. Carolyn was still screaming.

There was nothing wrong with the Agamemnon. There had never been anything wrong with it. And to scuttle a ship without even informing its captain! No, that was wrong. That was all wrong.

We decided it was better to scuttle it.

Who was 'we'?

"What was the point of this?" he whispered. "I couldn't save you, Carolyn. I told you I would look after you.... and.... I lied. I told you....

"I couldn't save you.

"Just like I couldn't save Mary."

What was the point of it all? All that fighting, all those deaths. He could see them all. Mary and Marcus and Michael and Susan and Carolyn and his parents and family and friends and home.

And why? What the hell was it all for in the end?

His hand touched something cold and hard. He looked at it.

It was his PPG.

He had loved Mary, and all she was now was a pile of ash and a plaque. If he hadn't been fighting this war, he could have been with her. They could have had this last year–and–a–half together. Maybe he would even have noticed her illness. Maybe he could have done something.

Maybe he could have saved her life. Maybe they would still be together.

He could see her in front of him.

Maybe they could be together again.

She was trying to tell him something, but he couldn't hear her. Carolyn's screaming filled his mind.

"I love you," he sobbed, his body racked with pain. The weapon felt so solid in his hand.

Maybe they could be together again.

No one needed him now. No one. Nothing. Mary was gone. Carolyn was gone. Susan was gone. John was a stranger to him now. Delenn was safe, with her own life and her own mission.

No one needed him now.

"I love you, Mary.

"I'll be with you soon."

He raised the PPG to his head.

The voices had almost stopped now. In fact they had stopped dead as he set foot on the hard ground of his new home and looked up at the sky.

He could feel its fear now. It was afraid. The Vorlons were here. The Rangers were here. The technomages were here. They would destroy it if they found it.

But they would not. He would protect it. It was a part of him now.

He found himself missing Centauri Prime already, but he had had to leave. He had to come here.

Lennier walked forward, looking for the Ranger Headquarters. He had been away from them for a while. It was time to serve his calling again.

The gun jerked upwards as it fired. There was a blast of heat and he fell backwards. The muscles in his hand loosened and the PPG fell to the ground.

David stood up and looked around. Lyta was standing in the doorway. She took a step inside and the door closed behind her.

"They're trying to kill you," she said simply.

"What?" Tears streaked his face, but he didn't notice them. For the first time he could see something new, and she filled his vision. She was the only thing he could see.

"They're trying to kill you. They're trying to make you kill yourself. Don't let them win, David."

"Who...? Why would anyone try to kill me?"

"The Vorlons. David.... the war's over. They're trying to mop up loose ends. That's all you are to them now. A loose end. You.... think too clearly. You have too much compassion. You're a potential threat to them, and so they want you dead."

"They killed Carolyn. They destroyed my ship and they killed her."

"I know," she whispered, moving up close to him. A spasm of pain flashed across her face. "I felt it. She was too independent. She knew her own name, and that was too much for them."

"Then it was my fault," he whispered. "What they did to her was.... my fault. If I hadn't talked to her, hadn't tried to.... free her, then...."

"No!" she snapped. "It was not your fault. It would never be your fault. They are the ones who stuck her in there. They are the ones who killed her. They're the ones who tried to force you to kill yourself. And they're the ones who are going to stick me in that damned network of theirs if they get the chance."

"You? Lyta, get out of here! Now! Don't let them...."

She put one finger on his mouth, silencing him. "I was going," she said. "I was. Then I.... sensed your pain. I sensed what they were doing to you. I couldn't let them kill you. So.... I came back. I couldn't let them kill you, David. We'll need you. All of us will. You are a good man. Don't let them win."

"What was the point of it all, Lyta? All that fighting, and for what? How are we better off than we were before?"

"We aren't.... but it isn't over yet. The war, the true war, isn't over. I'm going to find Sinoval. I'm going to join him, and help him as much as I can. He's the only one who scares them. He's the only one who can...."

"Lyta.... someone I loved died recently. Was that them, too? Was it just a coincidence I learned about it today?"

"It may have been," she whispered. "They'll do whatever is necessary to get what they want."

"I can't bear this," he cried. "Another war! I just want it over."

"So do I," she said softly.

Then she kissed him.

"After all this time.... I can hardly believe it."

Delenn smiled. For as long as either of them could remember, they had known only war. It had begun over a decade and a half ago, and those years had been marked by suffering and loss and heartache. Both of them had lost far too many they loved. She had said goodbye to Draal, Neroon, Jenimer, Dukhat, her father. He had lost his entire family, so many friends. Both of them had lost their son.

And now it was over.

"What will we do now?" she asked, still smiling.

John looked at her. "Hmm?"

"Well.... we now no longer have the entire galaxy to save every morning before breakfast, so we will have to find something else to occupy our time. No doubt it will be very boring."

He smiled with her. "I think boredom is something I can get used to. It'll be a change if nothing else, but I don't think we can start planning a glorious retirement just yet."

"No. After all, we do have to rebuild everything that was destroyed."

"And make it better this time."

"Exactly. We have an opportunity to make everything better this time around. But I don't think the galaxy will begrudge us a little time to ourselves. After everything we've done, we deserve a little holiday."

"And what to do with all that free time, I wonder?"

John suddenly turned serious. "Delenn, I.... I know that things have been difficult, but it's all changing now. I can feel it. Everything will be better now, and.... We've both got the rest of our lives ahead of us, and I....

"I'd like to spend that time with you. I'd like to spend as much of my time as I can with you."

She smiled again. "John.... nothing would make me happier."

They came like thieves in the night. It had taken them a long time to find him, longer than they had anticipated, but ultimately he was one of theirs. And waking or sleeping, telepaths were never far from their creators.

It was a secret station, hidden in a dead area of space, a place where Alfred Bester could watch and wait and gather allies. He had pitifully few allies and far too many enemies, but he had accepted that state of affairs with necessary stoicism. He had burned far too many of his own bridges to cry about it now.

Ah, but victory.... if he had only won that desperate gambit, then the galaxy would be a very different place. He had failed, yes, but it was a failure such as few even dreamed of.

And he had been content to wait. The war was raging, Shadow against Vorlon, Chaos against Order, Darkness against Light. While it raged, he would be safe. When it finished, the victor would be free to look for the dark secrets of that bloody war.

He had prepared, but flight was the only real plan at the moment. He should have fled even deeper into the unknown, into hyperspace itself, to the Rim, to any number of dead worlds the Corps had discovered.

But he was waiting. Waiting for one last arrival, one person, without whom life meant nothing.

And then the Vorlons had found him, before she had.

Talia came across the dead space station Laton after months of searching, following half–forgotten memories, whispers across star systems and the dreams of dead men. She had heard a little of what was happening in the galaxy, and had been pleasantly surprised to learn of Dexter's successes on Proxima. But always her mind was on Bester.

And she was too late.

Laton was dead, destroyed, everyone on board with even a hint of telepathic ability taken. Talia remembered the screams of those trapped in the prisons of light and she shuddered. There could be nowhere for her to run now. Nowhere. That would be her fate now, an eternity of agony and slavery.

But even ancient races can make mistakes. Even Vorlons have sins, and the greatest of these is arrogance.

There was one person on that station still alive. Talia followed his plaintive psychic calls for help. He was wounded, badly, but he still lived. She spent weeks keeping him that way, missing the New Year, missing so many things. When he was fit enough, he told her what had happened.

He told her of the sudden attack from nowhere, of the sheer agony that had engulfed every telepath on the station, of the creatures that had attacked them all, indestructible, awesome, terrifying.

He told her how the others had been taken. All of them. Jason Ironheart, Harriman Grey, Matt Stoner, all the others. Even Alfred. He told her of Alfred's last instructions to him, a whisper in his mind that he could not forget.

And then he asked her what they were going to do.

Talia thought about this for a few seconds, and then looked up. "We're going to get them all back. We're going to bring that network crashing down around their heads and free everyone trapped in it, and then we're going to destroy every single one of them."

Ari Ben Zayn did not hesitate. "Good," he said simply.

It was a place where the damned went to die, where the lost gathered to start at shadows, where the friendless, the alone, the forgotten.... where all of them could be found.

It was full now. There were many lost after the wars, the deaths, the pointless, constant killing. Criminals, refugees, bounty hunters, the just plain unlucky.... they were all here.

There was an inn, of course. Oh, different races might call it different things, but it was a place where the friendless went to drink themselves into blissful oblivion. The owner was a huge, one–eyed Drazi whose only words were the price of each drink, and who heard nothing but the orders.

The inn had no name. The world had no name. Most of the patrons had no names. It was that sort of place.

In the corner, in an area every bit as shadowed as the rest of the building, a man sat, drinking painful memories along with his lukewarm brivare. The vintage was surprisingly good, the memories still painful.

Her blood had been so bright, her eyes so dull. He would never hear her speak again, never hear her laugh, never stand at her wedding or watch his grandchildren play. There was so much he had never told her, and so much he never would.

He couldn't even go to her grave, to stand there and talk to her spirit. His Emperor, his best friend, the man to whom he had sworn his life.... had exiled him forever from his home.

Once he had been Lord–General Marrago, in charge of one of the mightiest war fleets in the galaxy. Now he was no one, one of the lost. No title, no name, no House, no family, no friends.

No one.

He wondered idly whom the Emperor had made the new Lord–General. He hoped it would be Carn. He was young, but he had talent and conviction and a certainty of what was right and what was wrong. He would be a good Lord–General.

On the other hand, the Emperor could have picked anyone, anyone at all, if he was even still alive. If Carn was still alive, for that matter.

It would not be difficult to find out. Information, along with alcohol, was the thing most commonly available here, for the right price, and the simple name of the Centauri Republic's new Lord–General would not be difficult, confidential or even hard to discover.

It was just that he did not want to. That life was behind him now. Let his successor have all the luck in the galaxy. He would need it.

He looked up sharply as three people arrived at once. Groups were rare here, and usually meant trouble. Anyone with friends was not the sort of person likely to end up here.

Two Narns and a Drazi. Neither a race likely to feel any affection for him. He had after all been responsible for leading the war effort against the Narns for three years, enlisting Shadow aid to do so, and in his younger days he had led assaults on the Drazi more than once.

It could be nothing. It could be absolutely nothing. Or they could be after someone else. Ninety percent of the entire planet's population must have a price on their head (or other appendage) for some reason or another. Bounty hunters were hardly unexpected, and they received little help here. Today's informer could be tomorrow's information, after all.

But there were always some too far gone to see that.

Slowly, trying not to attract undue attention, Marrago rose from his seat and shuffled towards the back exit. Naturally there was a back door probably six or seven, but he only knew of the one. He made a point of walking slowly, trying to hide his usual arrogant stride a legacy of the Court, that. He also hunched himself over, his cloak over his head. Look like no one. Attract no attention. You are no one. No one at all.

He reached the back door, stepped outside into a cold, dark alley, and walked directly into a tall, finely dressed Centauri. For a moment their eyes met, and the Centauri smiled.

"It is you. My my, how the mighty have fallen, yes. From Lord–General to.... this."

"Durla," Marrago whispered. A former Palace Guardsman, dismissed years ago by the late Emperor Turhan after some scandal or another. His was a face Marrago had always remembered, a man consumed by ambition, a man he had always expected to see again one day.

Just not like this.

"The Emperor has put a price on your head, old man," Durla said. "A large price, for crimes against the Republic. As a dutiful servant of the Republic and the Emperor, I am honoured to be able to serve him in this matter."

"I'm gone and forgotten, Durla," Marrago whispered. "Leave me be and let me die."

"Funny, those are almost exactly the Emperor's orders.... except I was to hasten the death. He wants your body cold at his feet."

That was not Londo. Marrago knew that much. That was the Vorlons. Them and their human puppet. Londo had risked a lot getting Marrago off Centauri Prime. He had given him a head start, that was all.

"I found three individuals most agreeable to a deal," Durla continued. "None of them likes me very much, but they like you even less. Besides, they will have all the price on your head between them. I am not working for money, but for the good of the Republic."

Durla leaned in close. "I heard your daughter was killed. A pity. She was always very pretty. Did she look so pretty when she was dead, I wonder, her body cut apart? You know what they say in the capital, on the homeworld?"

"What?" Marrago whispered. His breath was hard and cold in his chest. Lyndisty.

"That you killed her."

Marrago moved, his spirit commanding what his aged muscles were willing to do. He grabbed Durla's throat and squeezed, hauling the former Guard into the air. Durla choked, but reacted quickly, kicking out. His boots caught Marrago's knees and ribs, and pain flared in his body, but he did not let go.

Something exploded in his back and he stumbled forward, his grip slackening. A second blow crashed onto the back of his skull, and he fell to his knees.

Looking up, he could see the Drazi and the Narns standing above him. They looked even larger from this perspective.

"The friends I told you about," Durla said. "They will be paid very well for this, but that is only secondary. They hate you. A lot. Much more than I do. You are nothing, old man. Nothing and no one, and we'll drag your body back to the homeworld and toss it into the lime pits next to your whore of a daughter. And I.... shall be recognised in my Emperor's sight again."

A boot crashed into Marrago's rib cage. Another one came down, but he reached up and caught it, pushing the Narn backwards. His strength was ebbing, sapped away.... but he could not die here. He could not.

Lyndisty, I'm sorry. I should have protected you better.

He was suddenly aware of someone else nearby, a cold presence and a stark, painful smell. Marrago had been on hundreds of battlefields and he knew that smell intimately.

It was death.

His attackers had sensed the arrival as well, and they turned. Taking this advantage, Marrago rolled to his feet, his body protesting, but his will, as ever, pre–eminent.

The stranger was tall, dressed in black robes and a hood. He carried a long pike, a Minbari weapon, but this blade was jet black.

"Whoever you are," Durla began, "this has nothing to do with you. Go...." He stopped. He could sense it as well, and he took an involuntary step backwards.

The bounty hunters moved forward, and the stranger met them. His pike flowed in his hands as if it were water. Marrago knew little about the Minbari denn'bok, but he could recognise a master when he saw one.

He turned to Durla, who had drawn his kutari. As Marrago moved, Durla executed a near–flawless thrust, cutting badly into his side, but still the former Lord–General kept coming. Seizing Durla's sword arm, he broke it in one swift move, the lessons of his training strong in his mind. He had fought alongside Londo and Urza and they had learned unarmed combat together. All three had been strong with the kutari, but only Marrago had mastered bare–hand fighting.

Evidently so had Durla, although of a much rougher style. Ignoring the pain of his broken arm he lashed out with his fingers, aiming to gouge out Marrago's eyes. Moving quickly, Marrago caught his arm and pushed his opponent back. His foot moved forward as he curled his leg around the retreating Durla, toppling him to the ground. Durla struggled to rise, but Marrago's kick caught the side of his head, and he went down.

Marrago grabbed Durla's fallen kutari and spun round, only to see the stranger effortlessly take down the last of his attackers. He moved forward, stepping over the bodies.

"Thank you for your help," Marrago said softly. "It was uncalled for.... but welcome."

"My motive was not entirely altruistic." He spoke Centauri with a near–perfect accent, only a little strong on the vowels, a slight clipping at the end of the words. "I came looking for you, Lord–General."

"Then you found the wrong person. I am no one."

The stranger reached out and touched Marrago's arm. Warmth flowed through the harshness of his glove and Marrago stepped back. The pain.... all of it was gone. The frantic beating of his hearts, the burning in his lungs, the cuts, the bruises.... all of it gone.

"Who are you?" he asked.

The stranger partially lifted his hood. Dark eyes met Marrago's own, eyes so impossibly dark he felt he could see infinity within them, stars shining deep within a pool of eternity. The edges of a Minbari headbone could just be seen, but in the centre of the forehead nestled a jewel, incandescent with a myriad of colours, within which he could see....

.... souls?

"I believe you know who I am," he said.

"Yes," Marrago said. "I know who you are. Why did you help me?"

"I need something from you, and I can give you something in return."

"There's nothing you can give...." He stopped, whispered legends coming to him. "Can you bring her back to life? My Lyndisty? Can you bring her back to me?"

"No," he said simply. "None of us was there when she died, and in any event, we are not Gods. The universe alone can create life. We merely extend it. She will return of her own will, in her own time, when the time is right. But I can give you something else."

"What?"

"A purpose. A cause to fight for, and an opportunity to free your world, your people....

"Your Emperor."

"Why do you need me?"

"You are one of the greatest tacticians alive. Perhaps the greatest. And you are lost and alone. I am a leader and I am a general, but I cannot do everything. You can do a great deal.

"Besides, what is the point in fighting a war for myself alone? I need to fight it for everyone, and that means everyone will have to fight alongside me. You would be a good start, Lord–General."

Marrago stepped back, flexing Durla's kutari in his hand. The weight was just right, it was a finely–balanced, expertly crafted blade. His had been almost as fine, but he did not have his own any more. He had broken it with his own hands before leaving Centauri Prime. Then, he had thought he would never need to kill again.

Now, it seemed he would have to.

He looked down at Durla. He was not dead. Marrago knew he would not kill him. Durla was merely trying to serve his Emperor, and his Republic.

All that Marrago himself had ever desired to do.

"I will help you," he said simply.

"I never had any doubt," replied Sinoval the Cursed, Primarch Majestus et Conclavus.

Lyta waited until she was sure David was asleep, and then she rose and dressed quickly. There was not much time. Ulkesh would soon notice her absence, and she had to be gone from Kazomi 7 before he did.

She should not have stayed. She should have gone as soon as she could, and left David. He would have died, yes.... but how many more would die if Sinoval did not stop the Vorlons? She should have left him.

No, she couldn't have done that. He was a good man, the only really good man she had known since.... Marcus.

It was strange. Marcus had broken down the walls of cynicism and sarcasm she had built around herself with his simple belief in what was right. Then he had died, and she had despaired of finding anyone like him. How strange to find such a person here.

David, in his own way, would do just as much good here as she would with Sinoval. It was no wonder the Vorlons wanted him dead.

Gently, she kissed him, and entered his mind. "Forget this," she whispered. "Forget all of this." She had to go, fading away like a whisper in the night. None of them should remember her, not David, not Delenn, no one. She must leave nothing behind that the Vorlons could use to follow her.

He stirred, and muttered something in his sleep. She hoped he would have pleasant dreams, but somehow she doubted it. A lot of people would have a lot of nightmares in the years to come.

She left David's room and stepped out into the corridor. She had a meeting with Captain Jack in one of the hidden places he knew so well. She was late, but she knew he would wait. He did not know entirely why he was waiting, did not even know that she was the one who had hired him. And when he had taken her away from this place and returned, he would not remember a thing about their journey.

Kosh had done a lot to her. Sometimes she doubted whether she was even entirely human any more, whether she was any more human than the screaming souls in the Vorlons' network.

She walked quickly, keeping to the shadows. A few people saw her. Some were awake even now, and on a planet with as many different races as Kazomi 7 it was inevitable some would be nocturnal. She saw Brakiri merchants haggling good–naturedly, Minbari workers looking into the sky or meditating at the places where Valen had preached, a few drunken Drazi and triumphant Narns.

Few of them saw her. Their eyes just.... slid past her. None of them would remember she has passed this way.

She was near now, she could feel it. It would be morning soon, sunsrise in less than an hour. Captain Jack would wait until sunsrise and then leave, puzzled at why he had been waiting at an abandoned spaceport all night. She had enough time.

She was outside the city now. Almost there.

A shadow fell over her, and she turned, her heart quickening. Not now! She was so close!

Ulkesh looked at her, the wind singing in her mind.

It was dark, and they lay together, the heat of their bodies warming them in the suddenly cool night. They held each other tight, both afraid that if they let go, they would never find each other again.

It was John who broke the comfortable silence. "You know.... I've been thinking."

"Hmm?" Delenn muttered in reply.

"We need somewhere new.... a symbol of the new age, a place of.... I don't know. Something free from all the old associations. Everywhere we have is old, touched by bad memories. We need somewhere new."

"Such as?"

"Well.... Kazomi Seven carries all the memories of the Drakh, and it was a Drazi world before. Not truly neutral. But somewhere completely new....

"G'Kar had the right idea with Babylon Four. It was a place where everyone could gather, could assemble for a common purpose, but he built it as a place of war. It was always going to be a battle station. What if we did that again, but made it a place of peace? Oh, I know it would be expensive, but if everyone gets involved we could build it easily.

"A completely new place, untouched by any of the old memories, a new base for the Alliance.

"What do you think, Delenn?"

"I don't know. It sounds.... right, somehow. Appropriate. What would you call it?"

"Well, G'Kar's station was called Babylon Four, and this is a continuation of that, I suppose. Why not Babylon Five?"

"Babylon Five," she said, holding the words in her mind. "Yes," she murmured. "That sounds.... I don't know. It fits.

"I like it."

"Good," John smiled. "I like it too."

"Babylon Five," she said again. "Yes. I like it."

Victory. At last. An eternity of warfare, of battling the growth of chaos, the darkness between the stars, and now it was all over.

The Light was victorious, triumphant.

A heady feeling. The war was won. The peace was beginning. The younger races had been saved from hell, now they would be led towards heaven. Slowly, oh so slowly. It would not be easy, and many of them would die during the journey the weak, the unworthy, those who just would not understand but those of them who listened, who obeyed, who conformed....

They would see Heaven.

It moved through the cities of its enemy. Countless ships hovered above the dead world, guarding it from things without and within. All life on Z'ha'dum had gone. The Shadows had obviously taken their pets and their children and their puppets with them. Still, they would have left some tricks behind.

And there was one who would have stayed.

There was no need for deception here. No need for encounter suits or illusions or angels. It could move freely, a mass of energy floating between rock and earth and air, as freely as through the clouds of home.

Besides, there would only be one being alive here, and He could see through any illusion.

"I see you," said a voice, and the Vorlon shimmered as the Eldest walked forward slowly. He was in His mortal form, the one He had been born in. It was flesh, and flesh is weak. The Vorlon was puzzled why the Eldest would clothe himself thus when he had his true form, of light and energy and beauty.

"And to prove to me that you were right all along?"

The Eldest shook His head sadly. "I never wished to say this to you, but you do not understand. You have not won, and it is not over. It will not be over for a long, long time. One day, you will understand."

Lorien was the first sentient being in the galaxy. He had seen countless millennia of life, known millions of different races, seen wonders and terrors in equal measure, but there were some things even He was unaware of.

One thing He heard now He had never heard before.

The laughter of a Vorlon.