A Dark, Distorted Mirror. Volume 5 : Among the Stars, like Giants. Part 1 : Learning How to Live

Chapter 1

And at the same instant, they all woke up.

They were spread out across the galaxy; rich people, poor people, powerful people, helpless people. They were the people who shaped the galaxy, in one form or another.

And they all woke up at the same time.

Londo Mollari awakes from a dream he can remember now, wet tears on his face. He is a young man again, standing alongside Marrago and Urza and Dugari and Malachi and so many others. He is boasting in the way that only a young man can, and the others are agreeing with him. "I am going to be Emperor one day," he says, and they laugh. And then he looks up at the throne, and Refa is there, nailed to it by his own kutari. And then he looks back and sees Dugari covered with blood, coughing up more blood with each breath and taking those awful cough tablets of his which are covered with blood. And he looks back and he sees Marrago is not here any more, and Urza is dead and Malachi is dead and they are all dead except him and only his enemies are left, and Cartagia raises a mocking toast to say 'I won' and Elrisia combs out her long beautiful hair and Kiro plays an open flame across his fingers and it does not burn him and Mariel and Daggair laugh and plot and Morden is behind them all, smiling as he always does and saying, 'You owe me a favour, Emperor or Minister or peasant or wanderer, you owe me a favour and a man must always pay what he owes.'

And Emperor Londo Mollari II wakes up, carefully, so as not to wake Timov, and he goes to a window and looks out over the many lands of his domain.

Dexter Smith awakes from a dream. He was poor once, born in a slum of lost hopes and dead dreams to a mother who barely spoke to him and a father he never knew. Now he is a Senator, a man of importance, a man who is known and respected, a war hero, a champion of the people. But in his dreams he sees green eyes fill with blood as he kills her again and again and each time he hears the voices blaming him.

And Senator Dexter Smith wakes up and lies in his bed for many hours until dawn comes and he has things to do that will make him forget.

David Corwin awakes from a dream he does not want to remember. He cannot move, or think, or even remember his name. All he can do is scream, and there are so many people walking directly in front of him, Susan and Lyta and Mary and John and Delenn and Carolyn and none of them can see him or hear him and he is left to scream alone, the sounds echoing in his mind.

And David Corwin, once a captain but no longer, wakes up to the sensation of the sun on his face, but it is so cold and the sky is full of dust and the water is full of mud and his waking brings him no joy.

Talia Winters, who has more names than friends, awakes from a dream in which she is with her family. Abby is there, and Al, and they have more children, and she isn't wearing gloves, and she has only the one name, but she cannot remember what it is, and everyone is calling her different names.

And Talia Winters, who takes several minutes to remember that that is her name, wakes up and goes to check on her daughter. They have been apart for far too long and she will not let them be parted again.

Satai Kats awakes from a dream where she is in a circle of light, but she is not screaming and she is not afraid and as she touches Kozorr's hand and says the words she is bidden to say, she can feel herself crying, but in a good way. The sun is touching Kozorr's face, and he is looking up into it, unafraid of the light.

And Satai Kats wakes up and touches the necklace around her neck, the last thing he was making for her before he died, his last effort at a life where he created rather than destroyed. It is strangely warm to her touch.

Delenn of Mir awakes from a dream like many others she has had. It is not something she wishes to recall, but she hears that heartbeat echoing from stone and metal always, whether waking or sleeping.

And Delenn of Mir, the most powerful person in the galaxy, rolls over in her oddly horizontal bed and reaches for the person who should be there, but he is not, and she feels the cold where his warmth should be and she lies still for a long time.

And they all wake up and they all remember the same thing. Some recall the dreams, some do not, but in that one instant of half-slumber, half-memory, when what is real and what is not become blurred, a moment that Susan Ivanova would call the 'Hour of the Wolf', they all have one image burned into the back of their minds.

A pair of dark eyes and a fearsome voice saying one word.

"Remember."

But most of them forget.

There are more of them than people think, out there in space. They are the ancients, the forgotten, beings who walked the stars at the dawn of time. Mortals call them 'the First Ones' but they do not understand what it is they have named. They do not understand what it means to walk among the stars like giants, to look down at the younger races, at the mortals, beings little more than ants.

They have been forgotten now, largely. The Shadows and the Vorlons chose the twin paths of helping and aiding the younger races and the others.... they have gone, hidden, pursuing their own concerns, inhabiting their own floating cities and dead tombs. For countless millennia they have stood aloof from the rest of the galaxy.

Things change.

There is a world that no outsider has been to in tens of thousands of years. It has no name that anyone can know. The people who live there are forgotten and unknown. It is a world of cities crafted of air and rivers flowing among the skies. It is a world of hazy mists and whispered memories.

No ship has left that world for a very, very long time.

Until now.

It rises from the greatest city on the world, floating upwards on wings of water. As it leaves the atmosphere, the wings fold up and engines come to life.

And the First Ones' ship makes for a secret destination, far away from the worlds of the younger races. They have been apart from the galaxy for far too long. It is now time for them to return. There is one last piece of business for them to attend to.

Fear wasn't something he was meant to know. Not him, one of the special, one of the unique, one of the few. Fear was a lesser thing, for lesser beings. For mundane beings.

But as he ran frantically, his breath burning in his mouth, his heart pounding as if to break free from his chest, his blood rushing, Chen Hikaru knew fear. The thought uppermost in his mind was that this was not meant to be happening. He could not be afraid. He was a telepath, a personal agent of the Psi Corps itself.

Telepaths were not meant to be afraid. Not ever.

But he was, and he doubted anyone could blame him. The things chasing him, they were not human, they were not natural. They looked human, they talked like humans and acted like humans, but they weren't, and only one type of person could tell that they weren't human.

The special people. Telepaths, just like him.

This was supposed to be a routine mission. A simple reconnaissance. He had been here for three years, just keeping an eye on things for the Corps, or what was left of it. There was not much to Mokafa Station, at least not much to the public eye. A Brakiri trading station set up across a couple of moderately important trade routes. A layover point for traders and travellers into a few of the less explored regions towards the Rim.

But what the Corps knew but few others did, was that Mokafa held a secret lab making Dust, run by one of the more prominent Brakiri crime syndicates. Such a lab needed watching, and that was what Chen had been assigned to do. Just watch. He had been warned it might be a long time before he heard back from his superiors, and so he had not been unduly worried about the long period of silence. The rumours about the loss of Sanctuary and Mr. Bester going into hiding had troubled him, and he had even heard a whispered report that Laton had been taken and Bester killed, but he had not believed it.

It was only when the strange humans arrived that he realised something very wrong was happening.

They looked no different from any other travellers. There were four of them, a businessman of some kind, a secretary, a local guide and a bodyguard. Nothing particularly out of the ordinary. At least, to any mundane person. Chen had sensed something strange from the first moment he had seen them and a subtle probe of the businessman had confirmed his suspicions.

There was nothing there. No thoughts, no memories, nothing but a brilliantly shining light, a light that burned and blazed and raged at him. He had stumbled back before the unexpected pain, and all four of them had turned to look at him. And all four of them had smiled.

That was when he had started to run.

They had followed him, moving effortlessly. He could hear them communicating with each other, not by words, but by the thoughts he had been unable to sense. He could also hear them talking to him, sinuous whispers, soft echoes of childhood nightmares. Come to usss.... Be with usss.... We will show you the light. We will show you beauty and power and an entire universe of majesty and terror.

He wanted to scream, but he did not have the breath. He wanted to fall and collapse crying, but then they would catch him. Somehow he knew that they would catch him anyway.

Something twisted beneath his leg and he fell, his knee striking the floor hard. He stumbled forward and tried to scramble to his feet, but all he did was roll forward a little and hit his knee again.

Then they were there, just materialising behind him.

Let us show you the light, one of them whispered.

"Who are you?" Chen said, tears in his eyes. He was one of the special, one of the unique. He shouldn't have to feel like this.

Fear was for lesser beings.

We are the Hand of the Light, the first one said. He could no longer tell them apart. Everything seemed to be melting, clothes, features, build, everything. They were becoming mannequins, twisted approximations of what a human being should look like, made by someone who had never seen one.

Chen tried to lash out with a telepathic attack, but there was nothing to attack. There was simply nothing there. No mind. Nothing.

Come with us. We will show you the light.

"What are you?" he asked again. "What.... what are you?"

We are the Hand of the Light.

"You mean, you are worthless abominations," said a new voice, one harsh and strong, one that did not fear anything. Chen reached out with his mind to welcome the newcomer, but he recoiled. A mundane. How could a mundane be so calm when he was so terrified?

"Die!" snapped one of the creatures. There was a blur of motion and the thoughts of many telepaths joined in one. The sound as a PPG was fired, and one of the creatures fell. Another one stumbled back, clutching at its head. Chen could see light pouring from its distorted eyes and mouth. Something terrible and dark was seeping into the creature's head.

He shifted his gaze, only just daring to move, and he saw a tall man, dressed in innocuous grey, holding a PPG. There was a long scar down the side of his face. This was the mundane.

There were also several telepaths, led by an elegant, hard-faced blonde woman. They were joined, and holding off one of the creatures. The mundane shot another, moving with almost blinding speed.

Chen breathed out slowly and lent his own mind to the telepaths. Joining was a simple exercise, taught to every child. He had been warned in training that some joinings could remove control from him entirely, but he had not expected anything like this.

His mind was swept up in a current of energy that immediately pulled him free from any moorings he might have tried to form. It was a flowing river of darkness, that felt foul and smelled foul and was foul. He gagged at its touch and at its presence, but he could not escape. All he could do was try to stay sane and force the flow in the direction the others wanted — into the ball of light inside the last remaining creature.

It moved forward, unbelievably fast. The mundane fired again, but it managed to grab the throat of one of the telepaths. Looking with his eyes rather than his mind, Chen saw the light flow into her body. She gagged and stiffened, choking. He watched helplessly as the thoughts fled from her mind, the blood left her body, and she died, the body decaying practically before his eyes.

The creature turned to him next, and he trembled. He wanted to scream, but he could not even muster that much independence.

It stiffened and clutched at its throat, looking for all the world as if it were choking. More and more of the darkness poured into it, and finally it fell.

As soon as it hit the floor the joining ended and Chen was freed. He rolled over onto his side and shook, his stomach heaving. He gagged, and vomited helplessly until his stomach was empty.

He did not know how long he lay there, shaking, lying in his own vomit. Patches of conversation reached his ears, but he dared not even try to hear with his mind.

"No! We need one of them alive."

"They won't tell us anything. The last ones certainly haven't." That was the man, the mundane with the scar. Chen felt he should know him, but he just could not think clearly enough.

"Then maybe this one will. We certainly won't find out anything if we kill him." That was a woman's voice, but he did not know who she was.

"Another one dead, though. Was this worth it? Look at him, throwing up like a student celebrating his birthday." Chen felt his contempt and there was a moment's anger within him. Who was this mundane to criticise him? Him! He was a telepath, one of the special few, not some mundane, ten-a-penny mouse.

"At least she died free, not in one of their machines. We're doing something here. Each step we take is a step closer to ending all this."

"If you say so," the mundane grunted. "I'll take your word for it."

Chen rolled over and looked up at them. The woman was shorter than the man, and despite signs of strength and conviction in her face, he looked so much stronger than her. Of course she was a telepath and he was a mundane, but it was odd to see him taking orders from her like that.

"You shouldn't have tried to do that," the woman said, noticing Chen's efforts to rise. "It's more than a little disorienting the first time. And the second, come to that. It'll get easier though, once you've communed with the artefact."

"Artefact?"

"You'll see. We'd better get out of here, quickly. We can explain later."

Chen looked at the mundane, and suddenly he remembered who he was. "You're Captain Ben Zayn," he said. "You work for Mr. Bester."

"I work for her now," he said, pointing at the woman. "And so do you. It's the least you can do in return for us saving your life."

"Who are you?" he said to her. "What were those things? What did they want with me?"

"Do you believe in evil?" she asked simply.

Chen blinked. "I.... I don't know. I've never really thought about it. Why?"

"Those things are evil. What they do with telepaths is evil. We'll tell you all about it, but you'll wish we hadn't once you know everything. You really will. You can call me Talia. I know who you are."

"How...?" Chen stopped. He believed her when she said there would be explanations later.

He also believed her when she said he would not like the answers.

For one night, and one night alone, Brakir belonged to the ghosts. Marrago could see them moving through the streets of their cities, costumes of flamboyant whites and golds, masks and banners and jewellery.

There were many strangers here this night, aliens come to witness an event that most would never see in their lifetimes again. The Day of the Dead. Some came merely to say they had been there. Some came seeking answers to what lay beyond. Some came hoping for one last word with a loved one, now passed away. Marrago had his reasons for being here, and they had little to do with his mission for Sinoval. For six months he had been scouring the galaxy seeking soldiers and mercenaries and sellswords. Now he had a force of nearly thirty, with at least two he trusted as lieutenants. He had given them command, and he had come here.

They had tried to argue against him travelling alone, but he had come anyway, despite their protests. There was a price on his head from the Court, and there had already been three attempts at claiming it. He was still a recognisable figure and his refusal to cut his hair only made him the more recognisable.

But still he came alone. This was something he had to do alone.

As he walked beneath the night sky of Brakir, seeing the glow of the comet passing overhead, he spotted other outsiders, others here seeking.... perhaps the same things he was seeking.

A Minbari woman was standing on a balcony above him. She was short, slender and pretty, and her bearing spoke of power. She was looking up into the sky, and toying absently with an amulet draped around her neck. A human, his clothes stained and muddy, was sitting in a corner of an alley, starting at shadows and whispering names under his breath. A Narn, one Marrago knew he recognised, walked into the doorway of a temple, where hundreds of Brakiri knelt in prayer and meditation.

And a Brakiri, wearing the uniform of a captain in the Dark Star fleet, walked purposefully towards an abandoned building. He stopped before it, staring silently for a long, long time.

Marrago moved past them all. They had their own stories, but so did he.

He had rented a room in a quiet inn, not remotely surprised that the enterprising landlord had increased the rent tenfold for the Day of the Dead. He had paid. The funds he had gathered from various mercenary jobs were not inconsiderable, and what else did he have need to buy?

He sat down, trying to remember what he had been told. 'The dead will come to you.'

"Are you here?" he asked softly. "Lyndisty, are you here?"

There was no answer. He was not sure if he had been expecting one. The whole concept of the Day of the Dead sounded strange to him, and he had been weaned on ghost stories, usually bloody and melodramatic. His father had disapproved, of course.

But if there was even a chance, however slight, that he could see her again.... There were some things he had to say to her.

Softly behind him there came gentle footsteps, whispered breaths of the dead. His breath became very cold in his mouth. And he turned.

It was not Lyndisty.

A man was standing before him, young and handsome, dressed in the uniform of a Centauri officer, a kutari at his side. For a moment Marrago did not know this man, but then he spoke, and there was understanding. "Jorah?" the man said. "Jorah, is that you?"

Only one person had ever called him that. Even to Londo he had always been known as Marrago.

"Barrystan," he whispered.

"By the Great Maker," Barrystan said. "Look at you. You look old."

"I am old," Marrago said. "Older than I look. Sometimes older than I feel. But you.... you look just like you did when you...." He stopped, not knowing how to say the word 'died'.

"Has it been that long, then?" Barrystan sat down, as did Marrago. "How long has it been? Time doesn't seem to pass the same way there."

"It must be.... twenty-five years. Perhaps even more. Yes, twenty-five years since Immolan."

"Twenty-five years? Great Maker! That explains why you look so old." He suddenly straightened. "Lyndisty! How is she? She must be a young woman by now. Did you....? Is she...? Did you even hear me when I asked you to look after her? I don't remember."

Marrago fell silent. He remembered hearing his old friend's last request to him. A young wife, a baby daughter. Could he look after them?

How could he tell Lyndisty's father that she was dead?

"I heard you," he said. "She is fine. A beautiful young woman."

"Is she married yet?"

"No, but there are several candidates. I think she enjoys the attention. She has.... a way of looking at the young men, a way of moving her eyes that draws them all in. She got that from your sister. Exactly the same tilt of the head."

"And Drusilla?"

Another pause, as Marrago thought of something to say. Drusilla had become selfish and spoiled and shrewish. The two of them spent as little time together as they could. She played the Game of Houses and took young lovers to her bed and enjoyed intrigues and gossip.

But he remembered a time when he had danced with her at Barrystan's wedding, and watched her eyes sparkle with love for his friend, her new husband. He remembered as the light in her eyes died when he told her of his death. He had married her for honour, and she him for protection. There had never been love there. Her capacity for love had died when he had.

"She is well," he said simply.

"You did it, then?" Barrystan said. "Thank you, Jorah. Many would not have.... Thank you." Marrago did not say anything. There was very little to say. He had come here hoping, praying, for a chance to talk with Lyndisty one last time, to tell her he loved her one last time, to tell her that she had been the light illuminating his world.

He had never expected that he would have to tell the truth to one of his oldest friends twenty-five years after he had died.

"I cannot believe how old you look," Barrystan said again.

"I am old. I have been old for a very long time."

"Still playing at war? Are you Lord-General now?"

"I was. I.... serve the Republic in another way now. One better suited to my talents."

"What fool of an Emperor let you go from being Lord-General? Who is Emperor now, anyway? Turhan cannot still be alive?"

"He's been dead for a while. No.... a.... you won't believe this. Londo Mollari. Emperor Mollari II."

"Mollari? Never! Well.... he got it after all. The thing he wanted most in all the world."

"The thing he wanted most as a young man. I think now he only sits on that throne because there is no one else. Age.... is an.... uncomfortable thing, Barrystan. I am not sure if I would not have preferred to have died like you, a young man, still with all my hopes and aspirations and dreams."

"You saw my daughter grow up. You made love to my wife while my ashes were floating in the night winds. You could breathe clean air. You could drink warm brivare and eat fine foods. You are alive, Jorah. Death is a cold place, sometimes. Enjoy life while you have it."

What could he say? That he had watched Lyndisty die, that he had seen Drusilla shun his every gentle touch, that he had breathed air filled with the ashes of his people, that he had tasted only blood and bones?

Life was a cold place sometimes as well.

"Did we ever listen when we were young men, Barrystan? Some things do not change with age."

"No, I suppose they don't. Well, Jorah. Since you've awoken me from whatever it was I was doing, at least try to listen to me. You aren't that old, and whatever has happened to you, you are still alive, and it can always be made better. There is no going back when you are dead. There is nothing."

"Really?" Marrago whispered. He did not want to believe that. He did not want to believe Lyndisty had an eternity of nothing stretched out before her. "There must be something? Heaven, Hell? The infinite pleasure palaces of Emperor Creoso?"

"Whatever there is, I have not found it. You are alive, Jorah. So live!"

"Which of us is older now, friend?" he said.

"You, by at least three years, but that does not mean wisdom, does it?"

"Probably not."

"Be sure to tell Lyndisty I love her. I wish I could have seen her one last time. And Drusilla. I never loved anyone as much as I loved her."

"I will tell them," Marrago breathed, trying to hold back the tears filling his eyes.

"And remember." The voice seemed to be coming from a very long way away. "You're alive, Jorah. Don't ever forget that."

"I won't.

"I won't."

Our Dark Masters protect us. Our Dark Masters shelter us. In your Shadow are we guided, by your Shadow are we shielded. By your grace do we thrive. By your wisdom do we live.

Our Dark Masters protect us. Our Dark Masters shelter us.

Moreil continued the rite, speaking the words by rote as he had every day since the Dark Masters had gone Beyond. He had spoken them before battle, before trial, before food, before rest. He had spoken them the day the Priests of Midnight had exiled him from the worlds of the Z'shailyl and denied him the comforting presence of the Dark Masters' shadow.

He had never stopped believing, and he had never hated the Priests of Midnight for their sentence. It was an honour to serve the Dark Masters, an honour to draw each breath in their name. There had been too many failures during the bleak days that marked the end of the Dark Crusade. There had been too many defeats, and some had had to pay for those failures. Moreil had been but one among many, and he had deserved his punishment.

But still he lived, and still he served the Dark Masters with every movement. That was why he was here, commanding a Drakh starship, working with aliens, working with pirates and bandits and scum. They sought only glory and profit and power. Moreil sought only chaos, to serve the Dark Masters' memory.

They had many names, this motley little group of theirs. The Narn captain referred to them as the 'Brotherhood Without Banners', in reference to some group of heroes from his past. To the Drazi they were the 'Sword of Droshalla'. A strange human called them the 'Order of the Wolf'. The outcast Centauri lordling used the name 'Assassins'. Most, including Moreil himself, did not care. They all knew what they were.

They were the lost, the damned, the forgotten. The Dark Crusade, that some called the Shadow War, had left the galaxy in turmoil and chaos. Many had been displaced. Some, guilty of what would in more ordered days have been called 'crimes', had escaped and fled.

And people like that eventually came here.

There were many like them. Bandits. Outcasts. Raiders. Most of them had been destroyed by the Alliance. Only the Brotherhood Without Banners (or whatever you called them) had survived, and they had done that by hiding and building and gaining strength. Between them they had criminal contacts across the galaxy. Between them they had enough ships to comprise a small army. Between them they were capable of carving a small empire out of the galaxy.

And once they had done so, Moreil knew, they would descend on each other like the wolves the human had named them to be, and destroy whatever they had built. Such was the nature of chaos.

They did not even have a leader, although there was a loose council of sorts. Moreil attended its meetings when he could be bothered. Most of them feared him. There were a few other members of the vassal races here, but no other Z'shailyl. A Zener scientist and a few of his staff, easily cowed. A flight of Zarqheba, howling their mindless cries into the silent sky, easily directed when there were beings to kill and warm flesh to eat. A group of Wykhheran, who formed Moreil's personal honour guard.

To all of them, he was as a Dark Master. He had gathered them all and brought them here. They might be exiles, they might be masterless, they might be outcasts.

But they would bring chaos.

The Alliance would catch them eventually, of course. Moreil had no illusions about that. They and their Vorlon masters had bested the Dark Masters, so they would catch the Brotherhood sooner or later. The only challenge was to spread as much chaos as they could before that happened.

He turned, his long wings rising as he heard the Wykhheran shimmer into view, whispering darkly. Most lesser beings could see only faint outlines of the dread Shadow Warriors, but Moreil could see them in all their terrible glory. Forged in the black pits at Thrakandar, now forever silent, the Wykhheran were perhaps the Dark Masters' most awesome creation.

It was the Centauri, the one who styled himself a lord. That, to Moreil, was foolishness. They were all exiles here, what matter a meaningless title in front of your name? But to Rem Lanas, titles did matter. His clothes were shabby and torn. His face was scarred and ugly. His voice was raspy and hoarse.

But as long as he could call himself a lord, he was content.

Moreil did not understand, but he could at least tolerate it.

"Call off your hounds," Lanas said. "We are there."

"This I know," Moreil replied. He had studied this place carefully. Gorash 7. The agricultural centre of the Centauri Republic. One of their richest worlds. The Narns had almost taken it during their first war, and it had fallen during the second following a wave of peasant uprisings. It had been returned to the Centauri in the Kazomi Treaty that had ended the second war. Emperor Mollari II had worked hard at restoring the planet to its former glory. Centauri Prime was in ashes, and there was rumoured to be famine and starvation. The Republic desperately needed its breadbasket.

What better place to attack? Emperor Mollari had sent many of his most prominent officials here to oversee the restoration of the world. There would be fine ransoms to be had. There were Alliance officers here as well. There would not be riches, but there would be some plunder. The Republic was also the weakest of the major powers. It was not even capable of defending its own worlds.

A perfect place to begin the spreading of chaos.

Lanas looked eager to begin. He did not like the Drakh starship that Moreil had appropriated for his own purposes, he did not like the Zarqheba, the Zener, or the Wykhheran, and he did not even seem to like Moreil himself. It was a mystery, then, why the lordling insisted on this ship. He was no combatant, but his knowledge of Centauri power structures made him invaluable.

Moreil did not know why Lanas was with them at all. He did not know why Lanas was so willing to be a part of the sacking of one of his own race's worlds. He did not know why Lanas insisted on serving on this ship.

He did not care. None of that mattered.

All that mattered was the spreading of chaos, and the service of the Dark Masters.

The sun was rising. Once it had brought with it light and beauty, a million rays of colour shining from crystal statues and mirror-clear lakes. Now there was only mud and dirt, and the sky was a dull brown.

That was me. I did this.

David Corwin, once captain of the Dark Star 3, the Agamemnon, watched the sun rise over the horizon outside the city of Yedor, and he thought the same thoughts he had every morning he had been here.

I did this.

He had not really bothered keeping track of time since he had left Kazomi 7, but he supposed it must have been at least a year by now. No matter how many different worlds and different systems he travelled to, he still always based time on the old Earth Standard, and he reckoned by that token it would have been more or less a year.

He had left Kazomi 7 in the second week of 2262, twenty days exactly after the Agamemnon had been destroyed.

He did not know exactly what date it was, but he supposed it must have been at least a year. When had New Year's Eve been? Whenever it had been, he must surely have spent it here, on Minbar. He had been here for several months now and every day he woke up to watch the dawn, and every day he tried to forget the dreams that echoed in his memory, and every day he thought the same thoughts.

I did this.

He wished he could have seen Minbar before the bombardment. He had overheard some of the Minbari talking about it, and the wonder in their voices. He had heard the exact same tone among his own people as adults explained to their children what Earth had been like.

He could speak Minbari fluently, of course. Or two dialects of it anyway. He had learnt the warrior caste dialect during the war, to be better able to communicate with prisoners. The worker caste dialect he had picked up here. It was not all that difficult.

He turned away from the risen sun and walked down towards the city. Yedor, the Minbari called it, the capital of their civilisation. It was a city older than any on Earth, a city built when humans had still not even fully comprehended their own world, let alone the mastery of space, a city of wonder and intrigue and ancient mystery.

And the human and Drakh fleets had all but annihilated it in a single day.

Not all of the city, admittedly. The Temple of Varenni had survived, and a few other buildings.

And now there were more.

Someone had built Yedor after all, those countless years ago. Who was to say they were not rebuilding over the ruins of an even older city? Everything had to begin somewhere.

For over a year David Corwin had been a pilgrim, seeking some sort of peace with the galaxy. He had not found it, not on Proxima, not during the Brakiri Day of the Dead, not in the vastness of space.

He had not found it here on Minbar either, but he felt he was getting close.

He took the same path he had before, several times over the past year. It was not the most direct, nor the safest, certainly not the quickest, but there was one reason and one reason alone that Senator Dexter Smith took this route from his office to the Pit Trap.

It brought him past a certain nondescript alley, one just like countless others here in Sector 301, aptly dubbed 'the Pit' until something had happened here that had changed everything.

This was where the Blessed Delenn had died and risen again.

The shrine had grown quite a bit since he had last been here. His duties in the Senate had kept him busy, and this was the first night he had had off in months. His first chance to come back here.

The shrine took up almost the whole alley now. There were pictures and drawings and poems and scribblings. There were quite a few other people here. There always were. The homeless — and Sector 301 still had plenty of them, although fewer than previously — slept here, claiming her presence gave them protection. Perhaps it did.

He paused, as he always did, and remembered this place the way it had been. He remembered the feel of the PPG in his hands, and the look in her eyes.

Then he remembered her beautiful green eyes filling with blood as her body fell.

I killed her. She had told him to. The crowd — many of whom now worshipped here — would have torn them both apart if he had not. But he had still killed her, and nothing could undo that.

He sighed, and turned to leave. As he did so, he caught sight of a picture of himself pinned to the wall. He vaguely recalled that picture being taken. It had been for an interview with Humanity magazine.

Someone had scrawled the word 'Murderer' over it.

He left.

It was not a long walk from the shrine to the Pit Trap, and he made it in about ten minutes. It was busier than he remembered, and he wondered how much of that was due to the very public knowledge that he drank there. Celebrity was not something he liked. He had not liked it when he had been captain of the Babylon and he did not like it now, but he could not blame Bo for taking advantage, he supposed.

"Senator," said Jinxo, the barman. It was a sign of how much things had changed that Bo could actually afford to hire more staff. "They're waiting for you."

"I know, I know, I'm late." There was a bottle of Pit Bull on the bar almost instantly. As he always did, Smith offered to pay, and as always, Jinxo wouldn't take the money. Smiling as he swigged from the bottle, Smith walked past the bar into the back room, the one marked 'Private'.

"Hey, here you are at last," said a familiar voice. "Don't they have clocks in that posh part of town?"

"You and the horse you rode in on, Allan," Smith replied genially. He took the seat that had been set aside for him and leaned back in the chair, looking around the table.

Security Chief Zack Allan, his assistant Jack, and Bo himself. A pack of playing cards was placed beside Bo, as was a pile of counters. Everyone had a drink of some kind in front of them. "Prepare to lose all that you own," Zack said. "For tonight is poker night at the Pit Trap."

"I dunno," Jack said. "I think I've already lost all I own."

"The way you play I'm not surprised." Zack looked up at Dexter. "So?"

"So what? Bo's the dealer for the first hand. You know that."

Zack rolled his eyes. "Not that. The other thing."

"Uh.... what other thing?"

"Oh, for the love of.... Here, give a minute." Zack bent down and picked up a newspaper from the floor at his feet. It was the Proxima Yesterday. Dexter caught the front page headline, and immediately wished he hadn't.

"Here we are," Zack said. "'War hero Senator Dexter Smith was spotted leaving the Dome One-o-five apartment of Captain Bethany Tikopai late last Wednesday night, fuelling rumours of a romance between the two. We've been unable to get in touch with either to comment, but friends of Senator Smith, who wished to remain anonymous, stated that he was 'head over heels' with the Earthforce Captain. There have been rumours linking Smith, who was voted the seventh sexiest man alive in a survey by For Her magazine four years ago and is expected to rank even higher in this year's survey, with a number of women over the last year, but nothing has developed into anything permanent. Could this be love at last for the high-profile Senator? We'll have to see his reaction when Captain Tikopai returns from her tour of duty at Kazomi Seven next month. And if he's feeling lonely in the meantime, we know several woman who will only be too happy to keep him company.'"

"Give me that!" Dexter snapped, snatching the paper from Zack. It was open at the gossip page, unsurprisingly. "Oh, for the love of Gandhi. Mental note: Get that Media Bill passed as soon as possible."

"So?" Bo asked.

"So what?"

"Is it true?"

"No, it's not true. We're just friends, that's all. We had dinner together."

"Oh," Zack said. "I see. Just dinner. Right." He started nodding, knowingly.

"She's not bad looking," Jack said. "I hear Ladded asked her for a photo-shoot and she turned them down."

"Did you see that picture of her in Humanity when the new uniforms came out last year?" Bo asked.

"Oh, did I ever?" Jack added. "Mamma mia! I wonder if I can get the missus a uniform like that?"

"Uh, did we come here to play cards, or to talk about my non-existent love life?" Dexter asked. "'Cause I can hear all the gossip I like in the Senate."

"No, we want the juicy details," Zack said. "Come in, indulge all us poor working-class plebs here. We don't get to move in the celebrity circuits like you do."

"Zack, we start playing now, or I tell everyone about you and that doctor from the underground clinic. What was her name again? Something Rosen?"

Zack coughed. "Ahem. Come on, Bo. Get dealing."

The chips were soon piled up and counted, while Bo began to shuffle. "So," Jack said. "Explain that dealer chip again?"

Everyone groaned. "Jack, that joke stopped being funny two hundred and sixty-four years ago," Zack said.

"No, it was funny then."

"No, it really wasn't."

Half an hour later everyone had gone through several bottles of beer, Jack had gone through half his chips, Bo three-quarters of his, and Dexter three full houses and a straight flush. He had always been good at poker, but he largely played it because it was a break from everything else in his life. No squabbling Senators. No watching Alliance advisors. No gossip columns. No kiss-and-tell revelations from women he had dated fifteen years ago.

Slowly he fanned his cards out, and listened to Jack raving about how wonderful his hand was, which meant it was the biggest pile of rubbish since Sector 301 after the refuse collectors strike of 2251. Jack had never managed a good poker face.

Zack raised, Jack matched it, Bo folded, and Dexter looked at his cards again. He matched, and raised again.

"You haven't got the cards," Zack said.

"Yes, I have. They're right here, in my hand. See. Five of them."

"Ah, you've got rubbish. Here, I'll match you, and raise another.... fifty."

Jack matched, and Dexter. "Off you go, Zack. Let's see them."

"Read 'em and weep, boys. Straight flush. Seven, eight, nine, ten and.... hey, where did the bloody ten go?"

"That looks like a three to me," Dexter observed. "A three of hearts as well."

"There was a ten here. The bloody ten of clubs."

"What, the one that was a part of your drivel last hand?"

Zack took a moment's realisation and then started swearing.

"'Read 'em and weep,'" Dexter said, chuckling.

"And then, he did," Bo pronounced.

"Yeah, yeah, a mistake that could have happened to anyone."

"Anyone who can't tell the difference between a three and a ten. Bo, never let this guy behind your bar."

"Fine, fine. Let's all have a laugh. Jack, try and knock the smile off his face. Tell me you've got something."

"Two pairs," Jack announced, laying them down. "Aces and twos."

Dexter nodded. "Not bad. Not half bad. I've got two pairs myself. Kings." He laid down the Kings of Hearts and Spades. "And.... er, Kings." Followed by the Kings of Clubs and Diamonds.

Zack groaned. "Can I owe you?"

"Zack, you already owe me.... let's see. Seventeen jillion zillion credits, otherwise known as the Gross Planetary Product of Proxima for the next seven years."

"Only Proxima. Get back to me when it's the GPP of somewhere important."

"Where's important?" asked a new voice, and everyone stopped. Someone was interrupting their poker session. They'd all left standing orders never to be interrupted during a poker session. Dexter had told his assistants to contact him only if the Minbari invaded, and nothing else.

"Have the Minbari invaded?" he asked the newcomer. He supposed it would have to be something pretty important for Julia to come here. She knew the significance of Poker Night, even if she didn't claim to understand it. Even if she wasn't legally old enough to enter the bar, not yet. It would be her eighteenth birthday in a couple of months. Dexter had already picked out what he hoped was a good present. Bethany had confessed to having no idea what to get her daughter.

Legally, of course, she wasn't old enough to be in the Proxima Security Force either, but there were always exceptions in Sector 301.

"Not that I know of," she replied dubiously. "Who's winning?"

"Funny story," Dexter began. Zack looked at him and held up the newspaper, glaring dire threats. "But not that funny. What's up?"

"Something you're going to want to see. You too, Boss. It's.... strange. Very strange."

"Well, who am I to pass up the call of serious strangeness?" Zack replied. "Lucky for you, Smith. I was going to clean you out next round."

"I'm not worried. I'd see you counting on your fingers to work out which number is ten."

"Remind me why I don't play this again?" Julia said.

"Guy thing," Dexter replied.

"Oh, definitely," Zack added. "Guy thing."

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

It seemed that everywhere he turned, Londo saw a place where someone had died. That corner, where Malachi had breathed his last. That room, where Dugari had been murdered. That doorway, where the guardsman had fought off the Shadow Criers.

It was worst of all in the throne room. He could still see the patch of blood on the floor where Lyndisty's body had lain. He could still see the scuffs in the carpet where he and Cartagia had fought.

And he could still hear Cartagia's mocking words.

'The Republic will be finished before the century's over, Mollari. I know that, and so do you. Who wants to be known as the Emperor who guided us into oblivion? Not me.'

Not for the first time, Londo swore to prevent Cartagia's final prophecy. Each time he repeated that oath, however, the words came harder and harder to his lips.

The last year had been hard, so very hard. Famine had struck savagely, the uncultivated farmlands unable to provide anywhere near enough food for the Republic. Thousands had died. The breadbasket of Gorash 7 had supplied as much food as it could, but its resources were strained to breaking-point just recovering from the Narn occupation, and the number of ships available to transport food was pitifully small.

Immolan was troubled by pirates again, not an uncommon occurrence. The new Lord-General Carn Mollari was unable to muster enough ships to protect the major shipping lanes, let alone hunt down the raiders.

Time and again, Londo had swallowed his pride and asked Durano to appeal to the Alliance for help. Aid had come eventually, but only when Delenn had personally intervened. There were too many races prominent in the Alliance Council with no cause to love the Centauri, no cause at all, and who were only too willing to see the Republic starve. Oh, aid shipments were promised, but aid was needed everywhere and it was easy for promises not to be fulfilled.

And all the while, more and more people died.

And now this.

"The initial task force will only be five. They will of course be working alone, without any need for staff or suchlike. They have already marked out specific territories to investigate, and there is a list of people they will wish to interview. It would be much easier were these people to be available for interrogation in a place difficult for them to escape from. They would be caught eventually of course, but that would only take up more time and add to the overall unpleasantness, and neither of us wants that, do we?

"Their needs are modest, a room or so each at specified places. Two will be operating out of the palace. The homeworld is obviously the most important place to begin. Of the other three, one is to be based on Gorash, one on Immolan and the other on Frallus. Other worlds will be dealt with subsequently. The immediate priority is to find anyone who may have been working with the Enemy and is still in a position of authority, or of course those in lower positions working in espionage or informant roles. A list of all escaped fugitives will be drawn up and handed over to the proper authorities at Babylon Five and Kazomi Seven.

"Do you have any questions, Majesty?"

"Yes," Londo said, looking closely at Mr. Morden. "What did you call these.... investigators again?"

"Their names are really not important. If they wish to introduce themselves to you, that will be up to them, but if you meant their title, they are usually known as Inquisitors."

"Inquisitors, hmm? Well, a very fine-sounding title. We had some by that name once. Quite a long time ago it was, during one of our darker periods. They.... hunted down people who were felt to be enemies of the State, or of the Church. When they found such people, or fabricated evidence to incriminate innocent people, they burned them alive, as a warning to all other enemies of the State."

"I was aware of this, Majesty. Several cultures have had similar groups of people."

"I was not finished, Mr. Morden. Do you know the strange thing about these Inquisitors? They were very good at their job. Reports state sometimes hundreds, if not thousands, of these 'enemies of the State' were executed daily at some stages. But no matter how many they burned, there were always so many more. It seemed as though there were more enemies of the State when they finished than there had been when they started."

"Ours are a little more efficient."

"So I see," Londo said, holding up the list of names of potential 'interviewees'. "Lord-General Carn Mollari, hmm. Oh, I know these names. Several captains of my, and I use the word carefully these days, 'fleet'. Almost all of them in fact. Kiron Maray, yes. Lady Drusilla Marrago. Oh look, half of my Government, I am so pleased you have not forgotten them.

"Ah, regional bureaucrats and directors, yes. Oh, a lot of the Parliament at Selini, the ones who voted me in as Governor, the ones that are still alive at any rate. Tax inspectors and collectors. Prominent churchmen. Well, if anyone needs an inquisition, it would be them I suppose. Half, no, wait, three-quarters of my Palace Guard.

"Lennier, of the third Fane of Chudomo. Why, Mr. Morden, whatever can a Minbari name be doing down here? I thought it was just us Centauri who bargained with dark forces during the war. Well, well. It seems as though aliens are just as guilty as we are. I'll be damned. I never knew that.

"Ah, and my dear lady wife, Timov. I would rather you be the one to tell her that than I. She has a very fearsome temper you know, and I have had enough crockery thrown at me in this lifetime already, thank you."

Londo handed the paper back to Morden, who maintained his carefully neutral expression. "A most comprehensive list, Mr. Morden. I can see that a great deal of work must have gone into it. Alas, I fear there is at least one name you are missing."

"Oh, Majesty?"

"Londo Mollari. A particularly shifty sort, by all accounts. Just the sort of person your Inquisitors would want to talk to. He had a position of some power within the Republic, although not as much as you do of course. He also knows almost everyone on this list.

"Come now, Mr. Morden, did you think you could question almost everyone I know, accuse them with these lies, and not expect to have to question me as well?"

Londo leapt up from his throne, and knocked the papers from Morden's hand. "Did you really think you would get away with this? With slandering and insinuating these things about these people? Not one of your Inquisitors will set one foot on any world in the Republic, or I will remove that foot!

"I am Emperor here. Not you."

Morden remained impassive. "I hadn't forgotten that, Majesty, but evidently you've forgotten something. Everything the Inquisitors wish to do, including their presence here, is authorised by the treaty that you signed when you joined the Alliance. I have seen that treaty. It bears the signature of your authorised representative on Kazomi Seven, Ambassador Durano — or are you trying to tell me it is a forgery?

"Ambassador Durano will also be questioned, but that will take place on Babylon Five. I understand the bureaucratic centre of the Alliance is slowly being transferred there. Council meetings will be held there soon, I am given to understand."

"Not one Inquisitor, Mr. Morden. Not one."

"What makes you think you have a choice in this, Your Majesty? A breach of your treaty obligations would have grave repercussions. It might lead certain parties to think you have something to hide, things you don't want the Alliance to find out about.

"I might also lead to trade sanctions, jump gate blockades.

"A cessation of aid shipments."

"You bastard!"

"That treaty was signed by your representative, Majesty. We are only enforcing the rights you gave us."

"Not Timov. You will not touch her."

Morden smiled, a slight smile of triumph, and not the only one Londo had seen. "I might be able to persuade them that it is not necessary to question her."

"Good." Londo sat back down on the throne. "You will not touch her." He thought everyone else was gone. He had sent them away, or so he thought, but Morden had just given him an object lesson. Wherever they went, he could touch them.

It was at that point that an Imperial Courier entered the throne room. His face was ashen white.

"Majesty," he said. "There is bad news."

The humans had a saying Londo had heard. He had never really understood it until now.

It never rains but it pours.

There was no understanding, no wisdom, no intelligence, no plan. Nothing.

There was only the dead, and they were everywhere, hundreds of faces, looking at him, screaming at him. Some of them he knew were dead, Mary, Michael, his parents. Some he did not know for sure, Susan, Lyta, Lianna. There were many faces he did not know at all, human, Minbari, even Drakh, people he had killed in the war.

David Corwin did not even remember why he had come to Brakir. He did not remember much of anything he had done these past months. He did remember that last day, the day he would mark down as being the one on which his sanity had snapped, and the walls around his world had begun to tumble down.

First had come the news that Mary had died. A tumour, something as simple as that. Random chance, nothing more. No dark fate, no hideous whim of some omnipotent being. Just simple natural causes.

Then his ship had been destroyed. Scuttled, was the official report. Too much combat damage to remain viable. He had heard Carolyn's last scream and now he knew she was alone forever. He had not seen her here today. She was definitely dead, but also not dead. She would be alive and screaming for eternity, trapped in the void the Vorlons had created.

The next day he had left Kazomi 7, left the Alliance and just gone, seeking something out there that would make sense.

Sometimes, in his more lucid moments, he recalled an old story he had heard, of a fisherman who had grown sick of the sea. He had planned to take his oars and walk inland carrying them, until he reached a place where no one knew what he was carrying.

Corwin was carrying something much heavier than oars, and he could not put them down, as everyone had recognised what it was he was carrying.

Particularly everyone here.

"You've got to be one of the good guys, 'cause there's way too many of the bad," one of the dead said to him. "I told my son that. Do you think he listened?"

"Go away," he said. "You're dead."

"Yeah? Yeah, you're right. But that doesn't make me wrong. You'd have agreed with me once. There's too many of the bad out there."

"Yes, there are. And they're too big, and they're too strong, and we can't touch them. None of us can. What's the point in being one of the good guys? We can't win."

"That's exactly the point. We can't win if everyone talks like that."

"Was it worth it? Was it all worth it? You've left behind your wife, your son, everything.... Was it worth it?"

"Ah.... I don't know, really. But I do know this. If I'd backed out, if I hadn't been one of the good guys, I wouldn't have been able to look either of them in the face again."

"Go away. You're dead."

"By the looks of it, you will be soon as well. You could have been a lot more than this."

"Go away."

"I'm not angry with you. I should be, but I'm not. Just think for one second, will you? Just think."

There were more, countless thousands of Minbari, skin sloughing from their faces, eyes dull and hollow, poisoned and sickened and dying, all a result of what he had done. Him, and people just like him. They had been good men, the people who had attacked Minbar. Some of them had wives and children and families. They watched sport and played with their sons, and read stories and played cards.

They were all just like him. All of them. He had done it.

He could not look into their eyes. He could not even bear to look at any of them. He had not imagined the Day of the Dead would be like this.

He did not know if he slept at all, if it had all been a dream, but there had been a long delirium and then light had touched his eyes, the light of the sun rising. He stirred from the place were he had lain, and looked up to see someone standing over him. It was a Minbari woman, another of the thousands.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Please...." Tears were rolling down his dirt-streaked face. "Please."

"There is nothing to be sorry about," the woman said, in flawless English. "May I sit?"

He looked at her closer. She was short, and slender, and pretty.

"You aren't dead," he said.

"No," she replied. "No, I'm not."

"They aren't human," Chen said.

"No," Talia replied. "They aren't."

"Then what are they? They look human, or they did at first, but.... It's not a Changeling Net. What are they?"

"It's hard to explain," she sighed. "At least it is until you see the artefact. Then a lot of things become clear."

"What artefact?"

"You'll be taken to see it shortly."

It had been a couple of hours since Chen had been rescued from the terrifying creatures who called themselves the Hand of the Light, and it seemed he had spent most of that time asking questions and not receiving answers. His rescuers had taken him to an abandoned warehouse, where they had built a camp. Chen knew of army bases less well protected.

They had brought the prisoner with them. He had stumbled and tripped and had been dragged most of the way. He mumbled occasionally. He looked as if he were drunk, or very tired. As he looked at him Chen felt a strange surge of pity, and the memory of what the man had been faded.

"Don't!" Talia snapped, looking at him. "Don't forget what they are. That's one of the ways they win."

Chen had rested at the camp a little, washing his face and drinking a lot of water. There were perhaps forty people here, almost all of them telepaths, but there were a few mundanes also. There were even a couple of aliens, but they were telepaths as well.

"What is this place?" he had asked when he arrived.

"You ask a lot of questions, don't you?" Talia replied. "I don't blame you. This is a hideout for the time being. We'll be moving on soon. We have to."

"Where to?"

"We don't know yet. Somewhere safe. Somewhere we can help more people."

"Don't you mean, help telepaths?"

"No, help people. Teep or mundane, it doesn't matter."

After he had rested Ben Zayn had come for him, staring at him with those dark eyes of his. Chen had never been afraid of mundanes before, not even as a child. He had always known he was one of the special people, but as Ben Zayn looked at him, he wondered if the mundane understood that.

"Talia wants to see you."

"What about?"

"She thought you might like to be around when she questions the thing we captured. She even thinks you might be useful there. I'll reserve my judgement, but listen to me. I worked for Bester all my life. Him, I trusted completely. He trusted Talia, so I will as well. You, I don't know. Don't go thinking I'll treat you with kid gloves just because you're a teep. Prove yourself, or go out into the big wide world and be incorporated into the network. I don't care. Got that?"

Chen only nodded.

The being who had once looked human was tied to a chair, its head held steady by a young woman. A telepath. She looked at Chen and flashed him a quick, welcoming smile. He smiled back, a little nervously.

Talia was there, staring at the thing, her arms folded. She looked up as Chen and Ben Zayn arrived.

"All yours," he said. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"We have to keep trying."

"You mean keep running the risk of burning out? How many times have you done this, and what have you found?"

"Which is why we have to keep trying. I've seen what they do to us, Ari, what they did to Al and Harriman and Byron and all the others. We have to know as much as we can about them to stop them, and that means this."

"Fine. You're still the boss, but I'll be ready."

Talia nodded, and turned to Chen. "You wanted answers? This is a way you can get them. It won't be easy. It will hurt, and it could even kill you. I don't believe in lying to you.

"But it is necessary, and then you'll understand. You have to understand before you can really be a part of us, before you can see the artefact.

"Do you want to do this?"

"What are we going to do?"

"Go inside that thing's mind. Try to invade the network."

Chen looked at it again, and then back to Ben Zayn. The man's face was twisted into a sneer, exaggerated by his scar. He would not be thought weak by a mundane, not in front of his own kind.

He nodded.

Moreil walked through the ashes of chaos, savouring the feel of the choked air in his mouth and the touch of the blood-soaked earth through his fingers.

He had not come to invade, or to conquer, or to subjugate. Some of his companions had sought riches, or captives, or even the love of killing, but not him.

For him there was only the joy of bringing chaos, only the joy of serving his Dark Masters.

The fight had been easy, so incredibly easy. The planet had hardly been protected at all, a half-repaired defence grid and a handful of antiquated ships. None of it was any match for the renegades, the Order of the Wolf, or the Brotherhood Without Banners, or the Imperial Order, or whatever they were called.

Then they had gone to the surface, to the capital, and the true destruction had begun.

They had killed some, they had taken some, but most they had left alive to spread the tales, so that everyone would know who had done this. And that, Moreil knew, was what most of them wanted. They spoke of riches and revenge and power, but all they really wanted was to be known and feared, to be people of influence, to have their names sung and whispered.

An elderly Centauri woman was crying, screaming at him, interrupting his walk and his meditations. Moreil remembered her. Rem Lanas had taken her daughter, and the Wykhheran had torn apart her bond-partner and feasted on him.

"Devil!" she cried. "The Gods will destroy you! They will come down from the heavens and destroy you with holy fire. You will all burn when the Light comes. All of you!" She was crying. "You will all burn."

Moreil stopped and looked at her. She was old, and looked weak. He could have snapped her in half without trying, and his Wykhheran would barely have made a mouthful of her.

He bent down and touched her face, moving his claws gently across her cheek, being careful not to draw blood. He was taking extra care. Some races were just so fragile.

"I am Moreil," he said, speaking in her barbaric and uncivilised tongue. "Your Gods are dead."

Then he set her aside and continued walking. He would not be here long. They had done what they came here for. Gorash was not completely ravaged, but it was enough for now. They had sent a warning to the galaxy that they existed, and that was a start.

Next time, they would turn their attention somewhere bigger.

Delenn awoke from yet another dream, the latest of many. It seemed that ever since she had moved to this station she had not slept well. John was not there. It seemed he was rarely there when she awoke. She was not a late sleeper, but he was always up before her.

But this was the middle of the night.

She rose and walked into the next room. Space on Babylon 5 had been at a premium, and although the rooms she and John possessed were the largest, they were still far smaller than the ones she had had on Kazomi 7.

John was there, standing still, as if he were a statue. A candle was burning just in front him, and he was staring into it as if nothing else existed.

Delenn shivered, and looked at the wall. Space was beyond there, an infinity of it. An infinity of nothing.

"Remember," she whispered.

But remember what? It appeared that all of them had forgotten so much, so very much.

"Welcome to Babylon Five," she said. There was a meeting tomorrow morning, a meeting of the Alliance Council. It was likely to be a difficult affair. There were so many new faces, and so many of the old ones were gone.

She did not know how long she stood there, simply staring into space. When she finally returned to bed, she looked at John.

He had not moved. Not a muscle.

She sighed, and returned to an uneasy sleep.