We have never wished you harm, never wished to hurt you, or destroy you. You are our children, and we are your parents. All parents want only the best for their children, to see them grow and learn and become strong.
But as children grow they must be forced to become other than that which they were. Children are selfish and self–centred and greedy. An adult must be different.
The very act of growth is one of change, becoming different from that which you were. So it is with the growth of your race. We shall change you, that you may grow and become something better.
And then you will never need to change again.
He liked to think he did not feel, this creature of Order, of cold and passionless regimen and duty. That was what he had been told before he was.... changed, that he would never feel again.
And certainly, that was mostly true. He had felt no fear since the day he had been reborn. He had felt no doubt. Uncertainty and grief were now just words to him, or tools with which to manipulate others.
But there were emotions there. He sometimes thought of these as wrong, but at other times he recognised them for what they were.
Pride: in himself for acknowledging his own strength and conviction.
Satisfaction: on witnessing the effect of his existence.
Joy: in the aftermath of a task well done.
Gratitude: to his Lords for enabling him to be their tool.
Hatred: for those who would seek to oppose his great and holy work.
He felt all five at once as he stared down at the prone figures of his opponents. Satai Kats, the liar, the whore, the conspirator. Tirivail, the traitress, and the traitor's daughter.
And Sinoval.
The arrogant, the Accursed, the one who could not see where his duty lay. Sebastian had seen many like him over his long years of service. Petty little men, who sought to raise their heads above the herd and cry out, a piglet bleating to its mother to show it more attention than the others, a cog in the machine that thought itself more than the machine.
Vanity and vainglory, that was all it was. Some people simply could not accept that they were a tiny part of a greater whole, and they sought to become the whole, or worse, to create an entirely new whole built around their own selfish concerns and desires.
Some of those had seen sense, had repented and recanted and returned to their positions chastened and chastised. The others had been removed, smoothly excised like the cancerous cells they were. There would be a brief and localised illness, but the whole would soon recover.
This Sinoval would be no different. He had power, yes, and, unusually, he had power both spiritual and temporal, and he wielded authority among too many. He was intelligent and quick, and possessed of devious cunning.
But he was playing games with those who had been masters of the game since time immemorial, and eventually he would lose. He was mortal after all, and mortality carried within it a flaw as basic as the need for breath or nourishment or love.
Some were flawed in many different ways, or by many different means, but all possessed at least one flaw. Some few - the blessed, or the fortunate, or the particularly virtuous - were permitted to transcend, and that flaw was removed. Some few were made perfect.
Sebastian had knelt, glorying in the holiness of the Lights Cardinal, and he had heard Their plans to render the entire galaxy perfect, as he had been rendered perfect, and he had wept with joy and exultation at such an existence.
But first, there was one matter to deal with. One little matter, and that was all he was. No matter how great or noble or heroic he thought himself, Sinoval was only a small concern in the grand scheme of things.
"Primarch Sinoval, I presume?" Sebastian said, standing over the body of his opponent.
you will obey us
Delenn did not like Babylon 5. It was not that she did not like the Alliance, or even most of the people involved in it; but she did not like the station itself. The first time she had set foot in it she had suddenly become very cold, a great fear assailing her as if from nowhere. The emotion had soon passed, and for a long time she had kept it to herself.
She had told G'Kar though, not long before he had left for Narn. He had looked surprised, and then confessed he had felt exactly the same way.
And, in common with G'Kar, she regretted the lack of a past here. Kazomi 7 reminded them all with every step what the Alliance was for. No one could look at these stones bathed in blood and not be chastened and touched. Kazomi 7 was built on the blood of the innocent and the memories of the survivors.
Babylon 5 was new, far away from Kazomi 7 - in a central position at the heart of numerous trade routes, but still far from the people the Alliance was meant to represent. Perhaps if it had existed sooner, if it had known battle and fear and death and glorious defiance as Kazomi 7 had done, then maybe it could have been the emotional centre it so desired to be.
If the station survived this onslaught, perhaps it might yet become that, and the Alliance might be strengthened by it, but Delenn doubted that very much.
The Alliance was dying, perhaps even dead. The thin, hairline cracks she had seen during the past few years had grown into mammoth fissures. Any attempt to heal them could be no more than plasters to a man missing all his limbs.
But she was a healer. She had discovered that for herself. She was a healer, and she would heal.
She would at least try.
Fortunately there were others who felt as she did. G'Kar, Lethke, Kats, David.... she tried to think of other names but faltered. Surely there were others, or had the entire Alliance become filled with warriors or cynics or opportunists? Had the good men and women become so filled with bitterness that they no longer saw even the possibility of victory without bloodshed?
She missed Lyta - but Lyta was gone, defected to join Sinoval, or so it was said. Delenn could not even find the mind of the woman who had been her closest friend.
She missed Londo, but he was close to death, burdened by his own problems and his own ill–health. She could have acted sooner to help him, to save him, but she had preferred the good of the whole Alliance over the good of one friend, or one friend's people. Just another paper–thin crack that had become a chasm.
She missed John, but he was dead, had in fact been dead for years. She should never have brought him back from the ruins of Epsilon 3. She should have left him there to live always in her memories rather than become the man who had broken her.
No, that wasn't fair, but she was hardly fit to think of him now.
She was not a wife, she was not a mother, she was not a leader.
She was a healer.
There were few, precious few who could help her, but the Alliance had been born from only a few, and perhaps it could be re–born. Lethke would have needed a great deal more stealth to have hidden his meeting from her eyes, although she had not discovered his plan until after she had returned from the garden, limping and hobbling.
These were good people, people who desired peace and tranquillity, and if they worked together....
The smell of the room hit her while she was still in the corridor. At first she hoped it was just an illusion, or a memory, but as she came closer she realised that it was real. She kept hoping, daring to believe it might be something else, right until the moment she reached the still–open door.
These were not bodies, at least not the ones she could see. They were lumps of flesh, ruptured and torn and mutilated. One piece of flesh bore a fragment of Durano's red coat. The blackened Drazi corpse could only be Taan Churok. She wept at the sight of Lethke's body.
Her heart almost stopped when she saw the all–but–headless body of a Narn, but as she looked at it closely, with the cold, dispassionate glance that can only arise from the purest fear, she saw that it was not G'Kar. The clothing and build were different, and this had to be G'Kael.
She could not see G'Kar at all, and there was only one Narn body. Perhaps he had never arrived. Perhaps he still lived. Perhaps....
"G'Kar," she whispered, holding on to that one thought. She did not know how these people had been killed, although she could suspect, but if G'Kar still lived, then maybe their lives' works would still endure.
"He.... lives," rasped a broken voice, and she turned. There was a movement behind a table which had clearly been hurled into the wall with tremendous force. It took Delenn a long moment to recognise the voice.
She moved forward cautiously, lifting the hem of her skirt and picking a slow trail across the mass of flesh. As she got close enough to look behind the table, she saw Kulomani, blood sprayed across his chest and still dripping from numerous wounds.
"At least.... I think so," he said, gasping for breath. Horrible sounds came from his chest, the grinding of countless broken bones, a grisly rasp against the faint drumbeat of his heart. "Heard voices.... from the.... other side of the.... world."
"What happened?" she asked, leaning over to touch him. He shook at the lightest caress on his chest.
"Vorlon," he said, his eyelids fluttering. "Treason.... it said." He sighed. "Can't.... feel my legs." He looked up at her, his eyes filled with sincerity and conviction. "Kill me."
"No," she said firmly, tracing the outline of the table. It was hard to tell where it ended and Kulomani began, but she managed it eventually. Both his legs were broken, probably completely shattered.
"Dying anyway."
"No," she said again, biting her lip and trying to think of some way to move the table gently. Then she looked at the mangled ruin of his lower body, and reached out to touch his upper thigh. "Can you feel that?"
"Feel.... what? You.... have to...."
"No," she said again, her decision made. It might be that he would die anyway, but she would not let him die, and she would not kill him here. "We have seen too many die," she said angrily, her hands exploring the table for a hold. "This Alliance was built after far too many deaths, and it was built to celebrate life. We have all forgotten that, myself included, but it is time to remember. I will not let you die." She found a grip and dug her fingers in sharply.
"I am a healer, you see."
She forced the table up with all her strength. Kulomani let out a loud cry and his head flopped backwards, but she managed to get the table clear, pushing it away to one side.
His legs looked even more ruined from here, but as she looked closer she saw it might not be as bad as she had initially feared. The bones were smashed, but no limb was severed, and she knew Brakiri bones to be very supple. With time and rest they would probably knit. He might even walk again - or he might not.
"Commander Kulomani," she said, looking down at him. He did not reply, and she wondered if the blood loss or shock had finally killed him, but his eyelids fluttered. "Commander Kulomani."
"Empty," he whispered. "You.... are empty."
She took his hand and pulled him up so that he swayed against her, barely upright.
"I am filled with my purpose," she said firmly. "What else do I need?"
His head bobbed, and he seemed to be nodding. "What.... else.... indeed?"
You will obey us
She took a deep breath. She should be angry. No one could fault her for being angry. In fact, no one could fault her for being absolutely bloody furious. And she was.
But she was also ready. Unlike last time, she understood the need for this. Sinoval could not be everywhere, and his mystique drew on his personal power and force of will as much on legend. He had to be seen. Besides, he obviously had things to do which were more important than leading his bloody fleet.
She knew the objectives, and the reasoning behind it. Babylon 5 was the centre of the Alliance, an important symbol. It was also the current location of a lot of important people who would have to be rescued.
Susan had a very uncomfortable feeling she would have to destroy the station in order to save it.
She looked out at her fleet, trying to breathe slowly. Sinoval thought her capable of this. He must have done, or he would not have gone on ahead. He certainly wouldn't have jeopardised everything just for a single blaze–of–glory mission, would he?
She gritted her teeth, and began to speak.
"Is everyone ready?"
Her voice would go out across her fleet. All of them could hear her, and she could hear all of them.
"We are ready," replied the cold, dead, emotionless voice of Marrago, leader of the ragtag army formed from the remains of the Brotherhood Without Banners.
"To war we go, with no fear or doubt," said another. "May our ancestors watch over us." Susan had no doubt that Marrain and the Tak'cha were ready and fearless.
"Yes," came a simple reply, spoken no doubt through teeth as gritted as her own. Vizhak had watched his homeworld fall under the grip of the Vorlons, only barely managing to escape himself. He had been another of Sinoval's private projects, but he had worked to gather as many of his people as he could. Hungry and angry and filled with desire for revenge.
The Soul Hunters did not reply, but Susan could feel their acceptance vibrating through the Well. They would go through anything for their Primarch.
What a mess this was. In one way or another the three commanders of the fleet were all dead men, trapped and lost in grief. They were the renegades and the monsters and the bandits and the dispossessed.
They were an army of freaks.
Susan touched the pattern of scars on her face and felt the whisper of her mother's touch in the back of her mind.
She was a freak as well.
"You all know the plans," she said. "Hold the Vorlons back from the station, assemble a boarding party. If we can drive the whole fleet away, so much the better, but that's secondary. There's a list of people we have to get off the station before the really heavy fighting begins."
She paused.
"And if a single one of you puts revenge above the overall plan, I'll personally skin him alive.
"Let's go."
You will obey us
Sinoval lifted his head and opened his eyes. Around him he could hear the screams, the waiting, anticipating
things
from elsewhere, from behind the barriers of hyperspace. The
things
the Vorlons had brought through.
The human was standing there, still, not breathing, a faint, satisfied smile on his face.
"You would be Sebastian," Sinoval whispered.
The journey through hyperspace had never felt like that before. The Aliens were nearer than he had suspected. He had seen their city in the dreamscape where Sheridan and he had been imprisoned, but that had not been entirely real, just the reflection of the night sky in a lake filled with the black blood of the dying.
The things that had reached out to him in hyperspace were real, terrifyingly real, and close to breaking through.
"I am. Inquisitor Sebastian of the Order of Seekers for Truth and Penitence, to allow myself my full title."
"Of course." Sinoval coughed, trying to remember how to breathe, trying to remember how to force his heart to keep beating. "Formality." He sat back on his heels. "Sinoval, once of the Wind Swords, Primarch Majestus et Conclavus, Lord of Cathedral."
"Formality indeed," Sebastian intoned. "It is always good to meet with politeness, with someone who recognises that manners are inherently necessary in a diplomatic meeting such as this. In the interests of formality, may I inform you that the Lights Cardinal of the Vorlon High Command have ordered you placed under arrest for various and sundry crimes against the natural order of the galaxy. You are to be transported to Their August Presence, alive if possible, but should you resist I am to take you to them dead. Do you understand me?"
"Perfectly," he breathed. His breath was coming more strongly now, and his body was beginning to feel more normal. His muscles were tense, ready for the explosion of motion that would begin this. His fingers slowly curled around Stormbringer's hilt.
"Those who have aided or assisted you in your crimes are also to be placed under arrest," Sebastian added. "I have already begun this process."
He stepped to one side, a single tap of his cane on the floor punctuating the motion.
Kats was there, lying still and unconscious on the floor.
She was not dead. Even weakened and confused, Sinoval could see that, but she was hurt. The sight of her fragile, gentle beauty touched him in a way he could not have anticipated. It had been two years or more since he had last seen her, before Golgotha, before Sheridan, before the black heart of night beating in the necropolis crafted by dreams.
It had been easy to push her out of his mind, but now she was here before him, vulnerable and wounded, and he had not been expecting her.
The Well tried to cry out a warning to him, but the voice was distant and he did not react as quickly as he should have done. He tried to move forward, but Sebastian was ready for him. The cane swung in a smooth, graceful semi–circle and smashed into the side of his head. He fell, reeling, stunned by the electricity crackling from the length of the cane.
"I am authorised, and indeed requested," Sebastian said, "to use whatever force I deem necessary in the pursuit of my duty."
He struck Sinoval again.
You will obey us
For Senator Dexter Smith, sleep was not something to be welcomed. Not now. It was not that he suffered from insomnia, in fact that would have been preferable. It was that when he slept he dreamed of the grave, of worms eating his flesh, of cold damp soil filling his mouth and his eyes, of skin cracking and rotting and becoming dust.
He had to will himself to wake, and then there was nothing to do but stare up at the ceiling, careful not to wake Talia. She was sleeping well, and he supposed he should envy her that, but he could not. He doubted he could envy anyone anything.
He could hardly bring himself to touch her. Her skin was cold and clammy, her hair smelled of mist in a graveyard, her heartbeat was the slow, dying thud of a drum whose drummer is losing strength.
Sometimes she felt warm, and at those times he let her stay with him and sleep beside him. They did nothing else. He could hardly bring himself to touch her, or anyone else. He could not bring himself to kiss her. It was only the gentle touch of her mind that made her presence bearable.
It was not that he had stopped feeling for her. He doubted he would ever do that, but he could see no point in anything. He could see only death in everything and everyone. Even in her.
Little things provoked strange memories within him. He thought about kissing her, and he remembered the first girl he had ever kissed, only now she was not full of life, with a shy glint in her eyes and shaking almost as hard as himself. Now she was a hollow skeleton, her lips blue with cold and skin that broke at his touch, revealing emptiness beneath.
Every other memory he had was the same. Everyone he remembered was dead, a skeleton, a revenant.
Was that what death was like, he wondered frequently, the slow and gradual corruption of all the good memories, until all that remained were the bad, and there was no reason to carry on?
Fortunately he had a reason. Those creatures, the things from elsewhere, had to be stopped. He had to stop them, because he had seen one, and without the training and discipline of the telepaths who had shared the experience, he had seen and experienced more. It had been driven back, back into the Apocalypse Box from which it had emerged, but it was still there, and he could feel it every time he looked at a living - or dying - being.
That was his goal, but there were things he had to do first.
"You're crazy," Talia said to him one day when he told her of his plan. They had spoken such words before, about one insane plan after another. The breaking into the hospital to rescue Delenn was yet another memory that had turned to ashes, for they had got there to find Delenn already dead and yet they had brought her out anyway, but this time the words were spoken without jest. No joking. No banter.
He supposed he was. No one could look upon that thing and remain sane. No one could look unprotected upon the infinity that was another universe and not see things differently.
He was a human being, and he was still alive. That was what he told himself when he doubted, as he did so very often.
"I have to do this," he had replied simply.
"At least take me with you."
"No."
"We should leave soon," said the Vindrizi. Dexter did not like to look at him. The body was human, but the force animating it was something entirely different. The human body was fallible and weak, and he could see the flaws running through it, tiny fault lines far beneath the surface. But that did not matter to the Vindrizi itself, a being with an existence of hundreds of millennia. It could wait and live on. It didn't matter to Dexter either. It didn't matter how long any lifespan was - all things died, and one day the Vindrizi would die too. And it would cease to exist with an even greater fear than that experienced by humans.
"I must do this," he had said again.
Neither of them understood. Or perhaps they had understood and he had not noticed. Regardless, he was convinced it was right that he do this. He was human, not a machine, not a walking corpse. He was human, and he would repay his debts.
That was why he found himself looking up at the impressively tall Edgars Building, home of Interplanetary Expeditions, looking at the cracks in the plexiglass and plasteel. That was why he found himself waiting outside the office of its secretive controller and conspirator, Mr. William Edgars.
He had wondered if an old man would be more obviously dying than the younger people he had seen. To his slight surprise, that was not the case. Everything was dying equally.
Death begins with life, after all.
You will obey us
And so the ships came through, bringing war to the place built to symbolise peace.
The Drazi, a race punished and sanctioned and enslaved.
The Tak'cha, a race of exiles, without home, without understanding, without atonement.
The Brotherhood Without Banners, raiders and outlaws and murderers and monsters.
The Soul Hunters.
The Vorlons were waiting for them, of course.
You will obey us
.... never need to change again.
The Vorlon's voice was seductive and soft, the voice of a kindly uncle comforting a young child who does not understand the way the world works. It was the voice of wisdom, of the understanding of a teacher or a friend.
General John Sheridan did not need a lesson in how the world worked. He was not a young child, and he did not need wisdom.
What he needed, what he understood he needed, beneath the raging anger and the howling emptiness, behind the legion of ghosts staring at him with blank, unforgiving eyes....
What he needed was answers.
<You know anger,> the Vorlon continued. <Anger can make you strong, for a time. You know grief. Grief can make you strong, for a time. You know pain. Pain can make you strong, for a time.
<Everything you give birth to is ephemeral. Everything you experience or create is fleeting. You are short–lived creatures, and thus you have short–lived concerns.
<Can you truly say that your grief and your anger and your pain benefit you? They are merely ephemeral, and when the fleeting strength they grant you passes, what remains?
<We are eternal, and we have become eternal by putting aside ephemeral things. We have ceased to look at the present, or the future, for we know they are one and the same. Thus we feel no fear, we feel no anger, we feel no grief, we feel no pain.
<We want you to understand these things.
<You are special. You are unique. We say these things to you, because we know that you will understand. You have been deceived by those you thought you loved, and that deceit has left behind anger and grief and pain.
<But had you never known love, then you would not be experiencing the things you experience now. You would be stronger, not just for now, but for eternity.
<You would have taken your first step towards becoming as we are.
<We offer you this as equals. We do not seek to rule you, or to dominate you. We do not desire slaves. All we desire is for you to be as we are.
<Eternal, and unchanging.
<What do you say, Shadowkiller?>
General John Sheridan looked up at the Vorlon, past the patterns swirling and writhing on its bone–white suit, past the fluttering of distant wings, into the pale glow of its eye stalk.
"What do I say?" he asked.
He paused.
"I say....
"Cut the crap."
You will obey us
He was heavy, heavier than any living being should ever be no matter how large or muscular, and Kulomani was neither. He was weighed down with the burden of having seen death.
Fortunately for him, Delenn possessed the strength of one who has also seen death and does not fear it. She could not carry him, but she could drag him. His left arm rested across her shoulders and his right arm pushed against the walls, providing just enough pressure to keep his battered legs sliding across the floor.
He had said very little since they had left the charnel room, although every step had torn new cries of pain from him. For her part Delenn was content with the absence of words. She did not want to speak. She wanted to think.
Every building is created one stone at a time, one brick on top of another. So had it been with the original Alliance, and so it would be with the new Alliance. Currently there were Delenn and Kulomani, but G'Kar had survived, so there would be a third. That would have to be a start.
The journey to G'Kar's quarters was long, but mostly uneventful. There was no one in the corridors. A few security guards had been posted at the transport tubes to enforce the curfew she had not ordered. They backed aside wordlessly at the look in her eyes.
She could hear irregular, echoing clangs - the sound of a battle outside, debris hitting the hull. She did not know who was fighting, and it did not matter. Her concern was here.
The door to the Narn Ambassador's quarters was locked, as she had expected. She pressed the chime, and was not terribly surprised to find that it didn't work. Finally she resorted to knocking.
There was no reply.
She knocked again.
Still no reply.
"Someone is there," she whispered to herself. She could hear movement. Narns were seldom stealthy, with a few notable and terrifying exceptions. "G'Kar!" The sound of movement grew louder, and there seemed to be a scuffle.
"In nominus Primus," rasped Kulomani, struggling to lift his head. "Es su dest." His head slumped again, as if the effort of those six words had exhausted him.
The door opened and Na'Toth stood framed in the entrance.
"In nominus Primus, es su dest," she repeated. Kulomani nodded weakly, and she stepped aside.
Delenn led him in, mentally translating the words. They made some sort of sense to her. In the name of.... something, so is.... what is come. The future. In the name of something, so is the future.
Several things happened at once. Na'Toth closed the door, she laid Kulomani down on a stone table, she saw G'Kar slumped against a wall, a cut on his face and a Narn girl clutching at his side, and she realised what the word meant.
"Primarch," she whispered. "Primarch!"
"No," Na'Toth said acidly. "Not me, but someone I work for." She looked at Kulomani. "Someone we work for."
G'Kar moved forward. "Kulomani! I thought you were dead, but.... Sinoval!" He looked at Na'Toth. "Both of you. He is the one who introduced you...." He paused, and looked up at Delenn. "This has been a very confusing day," he said finally, with an air of exhaustion.
Delenn smiled sadly and sweetly, and stepped forward, her arms open. G'Kar was strong and warm and she held him tightly.
Their embrace lasted for a few moments and then she pulled back, her smile fading. Gently she reached up and touched the long scar across his eye. "A most confusing day, indeed."
He nodded. "Kulomani, how is...."
"He will live," Na'Toth said, from where she was standing beside him. "Or he will die. Most of us do in the end, but I doubt he will die today."
"I thought you were dead," G'Kar said. "I would never have...."
"So did I, Ha'Cormar'ah," the Brakiri said.
"Any others? If you survived, then...." Delenn shook her head, and G'Kar bowed his. "Then what now?" he asked.
"We survive," Delenn said firmly. "And we rebuild. We have survived, and we still care about the ideals of the Alliance. We must salvage what and whom we can, and rebuild."
G'Kar looked terribly sad. "I do not think that will be possible."
"But the four of us...."
"Peace is a delusion," Na'Toth said. "You do not seek to negotiate with your enemies. You destroy them."
"Sinoval," she whispered, comprehension dawning. G'Kar had said as much, but she had hardly heard. Only now did the words and the meaning sink in. "Both of you."
"Both.... of us," Kulomani said.
"And others," Na'Toth added.
Delenn looked helplessly at G'Kar, then staggered back against the wall, sinking helplessly to the floor, clutching her knees tight against her body. She wanted to think of something to do, but she was suddenly so tired.
What had Kulomani said? She was empty.
That was not true. She had her purpose. All she lacked was the next step.
She was suddenly aware of a presence next to her. Looking up, she saw the little Narn girl. She had been aware that G'Kar had returned with a child, but she had not enquired further.
"Is something wrong?" the girl asked solicitously.
"Yes," she said. "A great many things. I am sorry, little one. I have not told you my name. I am Delenn."
"My name's L'Neer," said the child.
Delenn's resolve crumbled at the sound of the name. She looked up at G'Kar, who looked away rather than admit the truth she had now recognised.
Everywhere she looked, everyone she knew....
They were all dead.
She opened her arms and L'Neer came to her. She held the girl tight and wished she could cry, but, like G'Kar, she had no tears left.
You will obey us
"Do I look like a tactician?"
Susan could see everything from the pinnacle. At times like this she could understand Sinoval's eternal sense of superiority. Standing here, seemingly on top of the world, she could see them all. The ships seemed so close she almost felt she could reach out and touch them.
No wonder Sinoval acted as if he were a God. Standing here, he practically was.
The battle was going better than she had cause to expect, but that was still not particularly good. The Vorlons were too many, and too powerful. Not to mention the defences of the station itself. The fleet was disorganised, fighting in small units rather than one cohesive whole.
Still, she had to admit that those small units were fighting well, especially the Drazi. They were completely heedless of any sort of tactics or fear and were impossibly relentless. She had seen at least two damaged Sunhawks deliberately throw themselves into a Vorlon ship.
The Tak'cha were swarming their enemy, using very impressive hit–and–run tactics. Guerrilla warfare, almost. Someone had been training them.
The Brotherhood were chaotic and random, but that very randomness allowed them some leeway. Marrago had identified key targets, and the Brotherhood were taking them out. Most of the defence grid had already been shut down.
And the Soul Hunters and Cathedral.... they were fighting as one unit, directed by one guiding mind.
Susan would be the first to admit she was no tactician, but when her army had two expert generals and the combined knowledge of millennia guiding it, she did not have to be.
But even she could see that they would be lost if things carried on like this. They had managed to force a small breach in the station and she hoped a boarding party had made it on board, but she could not be entirely sure.
She wished she could see inside.
And with that thought, she could. The station seemed to rush towards her, and she almost jumped out of the way for fear of a collision, but the walls passed around her and suddenly she was inside.
"Well, this is.... interesting," she breathed.
Navigating the scene was far from easy, but she managed to move herself around. There was a boarding party, led by.... surprise, surprise, Marrain himself. He and the Tak'cha were fighting a group of Security officers, and doing well.
Now where the hell were the people they had to get out? Susan ran through the list. Delenn, Sheridan, G'Kar, Kulomani, Na'Toth, David, and she really hoped he was all right. It was just like him to get caught in a mess like this.
Where were they?
All of a sudden she could feel Sheridan's presence. Casting around, she tracked him down.
There was a room filled with light. Sheridan was looking at a Vorlon clad in pasty bone–white armour, mottled and spotted. The Vorlon seemed to be looking directly at her, but it evidently did not notice her. It was speaking to Sheridan.
<What do you say, Shadowkiller?>
"What do I say? I say....
"Cut the crap."
Susan took in the scene, and paused.
Then she knew what she had to do, and shouted out one word as loudly as she could.
"Lorien!"
You will obey us
I am a warrior. I am Minbari. I am of the Wind Swords.
We are cold, the cold of stone, the cold of winter. A hard people and a harsh land.
Sebastian struck him again, the power thundering through his body, pain crackling along his nerves.
We were feared because we knew no fear. We would use the bodies of our brothers as weapons if we had to, and know that they would use our bodies as weapons should we fall.
The stories he had told Susan, the stories of Marrain and the Wind Swords, surged within him. There were other stories as well, all living in one. Tales of Shingen, of Parlain.
They called our armies the coming of the cold, and they feared us, because we feared nothing.
Sebastian struck him again.
No loss, no grief, no sorrow, no pain could deflect us from our task.
And again.
The coming of the cold.
Sebastian brought his cane back for another blow.
I am Sinoval.
He pushed forward and caught the cane as it came forward. The sparkling blue lightning crackled along its length and burned into the skin of his palm. He could smell his flesh singe and burn, but he kept up the iron grip.
Sebastian displayed no emotion, assuming he ever did.
It was a pity, Sinoval thought. Sebastian would have made a fine Wind Sword.
Then he remembered Kats lying still, and that lent him new resolve. He fought back, hauling himself up, straining, his feet digging into the floor. Still grasping firmly to the glowing shaft of Sebastian's cane he let himself weaken just a little, just a small step back. Then, as Sebastian fell, he pushed harder, releasing the cane.
Sebastian crashed hard against the far wall, the impact obviously jarring him. Sinoval grabbed Stormbringer from where it had fallen. The hilt was cold against the charred flesh of his hands, but that did not trouble him.
He was the cold.
The coming of the cold.
Sebastian moved forward, more swiftly than Sinoval had anticipated. The human's face was expressionless, but his dark eyes revealed his anger.
"There is nothing," Sebastian said simply, "that can save either you or your fleet. You do understand that?"
"I do not fear," Sinoval rasped. "I am a warrior of the Wind Swords. Mine is the cold, the stone, the throne of rock studded with spikes as a reminder that the life of a warrior is pain. Mine is the huge hall of the chill air."
"Shirohida," Sebastian said, carefully. "A thousand years dead and gone, nothing but a burned–out wreck even before your world died."
"No," came the reply. "It lives.... here, within me."
"Interesting. So what are you then? Minbari, or Soul Hunter? Warleader, or Primarch?"
"I cannot be both?"
"For as a mortal man hath but one soul, so hath he but one purpose, and that purpose is to serve. And no man may serve more than one master. You are divided, and division is a flaw. I see we had little need to pursue you. Left to your own devices you would have collapsed in pieces. You are no conciliator, no unifier, no melder of broken peoples. You are trying to be too many things. Where is the real Sinoval?"
Sinoval did not reply. With each moment his breath grew easier, his muscles harder, his body stronger. With each moment the pain was less. Let him talk.
"Buried beneath so many words, like a cheap doll covered in countless layers of paint. One person saw the real Sinoval, did she not, and where is your precious Deeron now? She fled from your bed, and died at your hand. There is no one alive who knows you, who can see anything but illusion upon disguise. No one...."
Sebastian stopped, and a sly smile of triumph spread across his face.
"I do apologise," he said. "It appears I was mistaken."
Behind him Kats began to stir, then she rose to her feet.
You will obey us
"Senator Smith, always a pleasure. I had almost thought you had gone into hibernation, hmm?"
That was a joke. He did not find it funny. Hibernation was a long sleep, and sleep was just a death from which you awoke. Or was it the other way around - that death was a sleep from which you never awoke?
"Mr. Edgars," he said. "Good morning."
The old man looked at him. The dying old man looked at him. Smith thought he had built up some resistance to this sort of thing by now, but he had not. The sight of the grinning skull beneath Edgars' permanently machiavellian expression unnerved him.
Edgars tapped the commpanel on his desk, deep in thought. "Miss Hampton," he said.
"Yes, sir."
"I believe I have an appointment with Mr. Zento later this morning."
"Yes, sir. In two hours."
"Inform him that something has come up unexpectedly and I will be unavailable. In fact, I will be unavailable all day."
"Yes, sir."
Edgars sat back, fingers steepled in front of his face, masking his expression. Smith liked that. Skeletal fingers were preferable by far to the sight of that grinning skull.
"You've changed," Edgars said. "I've seen that expression in people before, some young men, some very old. I was a little younger than you when I first saw it on myself in a mirror."
Smith said nothing, content to let him talk.
"You've seen something, or done, or felt, or experienced something. Whatever it is, it's completely changed your entire world–view, hasn't it? When we are young, we have such clear ideals, such a precise understanding of the world and our place in it, and then occasionally something happens to shatter all that. Where once there was certainty, now there is only doubt.
"I saw it in myself when I first spoke to a telepath. I had seen them before of course, and I had always known of their existence, but it was the first time I had spoken to one.... I could sense her superiority beneath the surface. Despite the uniform and the badge and the gloves, she still behaved as if she was better than us."
He sat forward.
"And do you know what? She was right. They are better than us. They have a power that I cannot comprehend. Oh, I can imagine it, but I can never know for certain. That revelation, that I was a second–class citizen because of something missing in my mind, in my DNA.... well, that changed me. I saw everything differently from that moment.
"You've seen something as well, haven't you? What is it? I assume that's what you came here to tell me?"
Smith nodded and walked forward, one hand still in the pocket of his trousers. He pulled the PPG out and laid it on the desk. Edgars leaned back again, looking up at him.
"I've seen Death," he said simply.
You will obey us
The whole thing took no more than a second:
Ah, child. You have called for me. How are things progressing?
Badly. You did know you were sending me to a death–or–glory bloodhound with delusions of Godhood, didn't you?
I knew he was flawed, yes. Were he perfect there would be little need of your intervention. How is his training progressing?
It's weird. Sometimes I think I've got somewhere, but then he goes and does something totally alien, or stupid, or incomprehensible, or all three, like now for instance. He's gone off alone and dumped all this on me.
Perhaps he sees you as his successor.
Once, I can accept. Last time, it wasn't really as if he had a choice - but he's the leader here, not me!
Ah, a battle. I see.
Anyway, I can moan about him later, if there is a later. You said I could call on you once, and you'd help me, right? Whatever it was.
I did, although my power to intervene is perhaps not as overwhelming as you may think.
Whatever. I don't know quite how this seeing thing works, but I can see John. He's talking with one of the Vorlons.
Yes, so he is.
I.... you can see it?
Through your eyes, yes.
Oh.... good. I want everyone to see it. Hear it, too. Everyone on the station, in the fleet, the lot.
That may risk revealing my involvement to the Vorlons.
Then risk it.
Do you believe this is so important?
I wouldn't ask if I didn't. What he's saying, it's something everyone has to hear. That's what you kept telling me, that this isn't just a war about armies or territory, it's about ideology and belief and philosophy and them trying to dictate what's best for all of us.
Yes.
Well, I think John's about to tell them all that their ideology stinks, and it's something everyone should hear. There are too many people who think the Vorlons are a necessary evil, even after what they did to Narn. We can't afford to let any more planets be destroyed before people finally get up and do something. The more people who hear this conversation, the more people will act now. Do you get me?
Perfectly.
You did promise. Any one thing, and you'd do it.
I did. Very well. It is perhaps a little too late for me to continue to hide, and time I should 'get up and do something'.
That's not what I meant.
No, it is. I will do as you ask.
The whole conversation took less than a second.
You will obey us!
His breath was as fire from his lungs, his eyes were as cold as the halls that had given him birth, his blade was as black as blood at midnight.
Any lesser man would have been intimidated, but Sebastian was not a lesser man. He was a man who had stared at infinity and survived with both purpose and sanity.
Kats looked at the tableau as she rose, coughing and shaking, and she could feel the power crackling in the air between them. Sebastian was talking, but the words hardly registered. Sinoval said nothing, or if he did speak, she could not hear the words.
And then Sebastian paused, and she had the impression that he was smiling.
"I do apologise," he said. "It appears I was mistaken."
He turned and looked at her. She saw in him then the eyes of a murderer, the eyes of a monster who knows too much and understands too little. She had faced madmen before, and she knew then that Sebastian was not mad.
He was coldly, chillingly sane, the kind of sanity that cannot tolerate any madness at all, no matter how insignificant.
"My lady," he said, and the words cut her to the quick. He was holding his cane in one hand, tapping the silver top in the palm of the other. "It is so nice of you to join us. We were having a spirited discussion. Perhaps you can help us. What, in your opinion, is Primarch Sinoval?"
She did not look at Sinoval, keeping her eyes fixed on Sebastian despite the gorge rising in her throat. Her hand clutched her necklace so tightly that it drew blood.
"What does that matter?" she asked.
"He seems to be under the delusion that he is a hero. What do you think of that?"
"I don't know."
"Really. How disappointing. I know that you do not know who you are, but I had hoped at least that you knew who he was."
"He's a good man," she said, breathing slowly. "He has done bad things, and he is capable of doing horrible things. To be honest, I am more scared of him sometimes than of anyone else I have ever known.
"Including you.
"But he is still a good man for all that. He has never intended to do wrong."
"How.... interesting," Sebastian said. "So very blind. Shall I tell you about good people with good intentions? Good people are weak, you blind woman. I believed once that I was doing good, and others called me a monster. I had good intentions, plans to erase debauchery and weakness and barbarism, and I was branded insane. Anyone can perpetrate acts of horror and barbarism and claim that they had 'good intentions'.
"As for him, his intentions are as irrelevant as yours. Deeds are what matter and what have his shown him to be?"
Kats smiled. "A good man. A strong man."
"Strong? On the contrary, he is flawed. Weak. Incomplete."
"Oh," she said, softly. "I don't know about that."
Sinoval darted forward, Stormbringer flashing. She had not seen the preparation, but she had heard his breathing, and she knew him. Sebastian took a step back and raised his cane to parry, but Kats had expected that.
Leaping forward, she grabbed the cane and struggled to wrench it away from him. The power surged at her, and burned her skin. She screamed and let go, but she had done enough.
Stormbringer smashed into the human's side. She heard Sebastian's ribs break and saw his face twitch, for just one second, in a grimace of pain.
Sinoval kept up the attack. Sebastian took slow, measured steps backwards, a defender's steps. Sinoval's attack was that of a warrior - aggressive, furious, strong.
But as Kats cradled her burning hands against her belly she saw that Sinoval was too wild, that he had lost the control he had always exemplified. Please, she thought. Stay calm. Don't let him provoke you.
Then she saw Sebastian parry Stormbringer and hold it with his cane. The black blade of the pike seemed to absorb the lightning and draw it into Sinoval. She watched as his grip weakened, then she scorned her own advice and lunged forward.
It hurt to move her hands, but she had lived with pain before, far greater pain than this. She clawed at Sebastian's face, raking at his eyes, throwing her body at him. He slipped and stumbled, and his cane almost dropped from his hand.
Her momentum forced him to the floor. She swayed, but managed to stay on her feet. She stumbled back as Sinoval readied his final blow, a sideways swing that would surely break Sebastian's neck.
With inches to spare, Sebastian brought up his cane. It was less a parry than an attack on the blade of Stormbringer itself. Kats saw the ball of lightning form an instant before the strike. She doubted if Sinoval did, but he could hardly have missed the sound that accompanied the impact.
It was an awful noise: the sound of metal breaking, and a soul with it. There was a flash of light, a blur of motion, and a short, sudden pain in her stomach.
As Sinoval staggered back, seemingly blinded, she saw that Stormbringer was shattered. The piece that Sinoval still held was no longer than his arm. Sebastian leapt up and thrust forward with his cane. Sinoval tried to parry, but Stormbringer was not long enough, and he was moving too slowly, as if he were swimming in air as thick as blood.
Kats coughed, and realised that she was coughing up blood. She looked down.
And saw Stormbringer's jagged shard embedded in her stomach.
But it hadn't hurt at all, she thought dumbly as she fell forward to her knees. She managed to raise her head and look up, only to see Sinoval reeling backwards and Sebastian aiming carefully–judged blows at him. She tried to say something, but all she could do was open her mouth and cough up more blood.
The last thing she saw before she fell to the floor was something she had never realised could happen:
Sinoval, Primarch Majestus et Conclavus, falling on the field of battle.
Or you will die.
<We offer you salvation.>
"No, you don't. You're offering us stagnation. You're offering us nothing, now and for eternity."
<You are flawed. We offer you perfection.>
"Maybe we don't want to be perfect. Have you ever thought of that? Maybe it's our flaws that make life interesting."
<We gave you life. Were it not for us you would be a broken shell, felled by your own sickness. We gave you....>
"You tried to control me, that's all you did! Don't you dare try this altruistic, we've–only–got–your–best–interests–at–heart spiel on me."
<We have only ever desired to protect you.>
"Maybe we don't need your protection."
<You spurn us. You spurn our gifts.>
"Well, that's a funny thing. One of your guys gave me a gift earlier. The gift of truth, I suppose it was. And it hurt. Oh God, it hurt."
<It was....>
"Shut up! Damn you, I've stood here and I've listened to your crap for all this time, now you can at least listen to me! Yes, the truth hurt, but I'm glad he told me, because after I stopped blaming the person I shouldn't have been blaming, I looked around.
"You sent her there to die, you self–righteous sons of bitches. You sent Delenn to Z'ha'dum to die, and you probably knew she was pregnant and you didn't care one little bit! There's your perfection for you, there's your caring and nurturing and altruism right there. When it comes down to it, you'll throw people away just because it's convenient."
<You are a leader. You know what it means to have to send people to their deaths.>
"Yes, damn it, I do, but I regretted it each and every time I did it, and I never, ever sent someone to die just because it was more convenient that way."
<You were to be our leader, our general.>
"And Heaven forbid I have anything distracting me from that, hey? Like, I don't know, a wife and kid? I'm so sick of you and all like you trying to control me. You tried to make me turn against Delenn by giving me your truth, and for a time I did, because I was so angry I couldn't think straight! Sinoval tried to make me turn against you by mind games and parlour tricks and philosophy and I wasn't sure what to say because I had no idea what I was meant to be doing.
"For a long time I had no idea what I was meant to be fighting for, but after listening to all that crap you've spewed out, I've made up my mind.
"I'll fight for my friends, if I have any friends left. I'll fight for Delenn, if she'll even have me back, which she has no reason to. I'll fight for those who need someone to lead them who isn't a zealot like you or Sinoval.
"And I'll fight against you because you're nothing but arrogant, stuck–up, holier–than–thou puppeteers who think you've got the right to do whatever you want!"
<We have offered you power. We have offered you perfection. You have turned us down. You are the discordant note in our song, the stone that turns beneath our feet, the shadow that mars our light.
<You say you will fight us. We say this:
<You will obey us.
<Or you will die.>