Help me, came the pitiful psychic cry. It fell to the ground, head tilted back, choking sounds coming from its shaking body. It reached out one hand to Dexter.
Help me, brother.
Talia looked at him, trembling. He was looking back at her, his gaze stern. She caught a glimpse of horror in his expression. It had been almost two years. She had changed. He would have to understand that.
He would understand that, wouldn't he?
The abomination tried to crawl towards him. Help me, brother, it said again, reaching out to touch him.
Dexter kicked its hand away. "No," he said softly.
It shrank up into a ball, now completely consumed by the shadow. Little moans came from it, but they were becoming quieter and quieter. The shaking grew less and less. The shadow became smaller and smaller and finally faded away, leaving nothing behind.
Talia looked up at Dexter. He was motionless, staring at her.
"Don't judge me," she whispered. "Don't dare judge me."
"You've changed," he said.
"I'm at war. Of course I've changed."
He walked over to the bed and sat down next to her. "I've changed too," he whispered.
She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close.
"That's what you came to talk to me about, isn't it?" he asked. She nodded wordlessly. "They know you're here?" Another nod. "Will there be more of them?" Another nod.
"So," he said at last. "You need my help?"
"Yes," she said, pulling back and looking up at him. "They're here. They have a base here. IPX is still capturing telepaths and turning us into…. them. They're just going a little further afield."
"They won a contract from the Government some time last year. It involves going out amongst the destroyed colonies, looking for salvage. Lots of big ships. A long time away from Proxima, or anywhere civilised. Lots of scope for…. anything."
"I'm here to fight them," she said softly. "Want to help?"
"You mean, do I want to give up a cushy Senator's job and go back to the glory days of waging a suicidal guerilla war against all-powerful opponents?" He stopped, thinking about it. "Sure, why not? What's the first stage, other than both of us getting out of here?"
She kissed him. His lips were very warm. His head was pounding — she could feel the pain in the back of his skull. Too much alcohol. Not her, though. She was remarkably clear-headed.
"Thank you," she said.
"Anything for a lady."
"The first thing we need is a little help to get a few people inside Proxima without strictly legal passports. And there's an item we need brought in as well. You'll have to see it. It will explain a lot, not least…. how I've changed."
"I can do that. What's this item do?"
"A great many things. It's called the Apocalypse Box."
* * *
Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar loved many things in his life, although it did not come easily to him to say so. I could read some of the things in his expression as he told his tales of the old days.
G'Kar looked at the shrine for a long time, his eyes half-closed, seeing half of what was and half what of had been and half of what he dreamed it could be.
No one ever saw what was there. They saw what they wished to be there.
Or what they feared was there.
Or some combination of both.
He loved his people. He loved his cause. He loved his friends dearly. He loved Delenn of Mir and Emperor Londo Mollari and he even felt some love for Primarch Sinoval, who was hardly the easiest person to love. He loved Commander Ta'Lon and the memory of Neroon, and most of all he loved Lennier, almost as much as I did.
He even loved me a little.
People passed by, no one seeming to notice the building in front of them. A holy place, dedicated to the lost and the fallen, and no one seemed to care. He saw a young human stare at it for a long time, a wide-eyed sense of wonder in his face, and then walk on. He saw a Narn girl humming to herself as she looked at it. He saw an elderly Narn soldier, walking with a heavy limp and missing an arm, stare at the memory of the building with misty eyes.
But the adults, those who held the power or supported those who held the power. The current generation of the Narn people. His generation, those who had survived the Occupation and the War and been able to realise the better world they had always told themselves was possible.
They saw nothing.
Most of all, he loved his hopes for the future. So much of that part of him had been lost before I met him, and most of what remained has been lost since. He rarely spoke of his dreams to me, but sometimes he did, and then his eyes seemed to light up.
That was what he truly loved, the future.
"So much is forgotten, so much is lost."
He was waiting for Lennier or Ta'Lon to get back to him. Both were investigating secret things, digging into buried mysteries. He was doing the same, but in his own way. Lennier and Ta'Lon were investigating conspiracies and secrets.
He was investigating the hearts and the souls of his people.
He told me once that he loved hope more than anything else, for hope was pure and perfect. You could hope for a better world despite knowing it would never come. You could hope for a victory and never have to imagine what would come afterwards, when the memory of the victory faded.
"Ha'Cormar'ah," said a voice quietly to him. He turned to see someone looking at him. He had made no attempt at disguise, but neither had he made any effort to draw attention to himself. No one had spared him a second glance. He was sure the agents and the eyes of the Kha'Ri would have noticed him, but to his people, he was no one.
"Yes?" he said.
The Narn nodded, and then seemed to shimmer.
I have spent thirty years trying to understand everything he told me, and the most important lesson I have learned in all that time is that I never will. I miss him every day. I miss his wisdom, his kindness, his understanding, his drive.
Most of all I miss the dreams of the young man he must once have been. There is no one left now who knew that young man. They are all gone. Speak his name to a few elderly men and women and their eyes will light up, their years drop away and they will remember his face and his speeches, but they will not remember him.
Still, perhaps that is magic enough. Perhaps that is legacy enough. It is more than most of us can ask for, to be remembered in that way.
As a legend.
G'Kar realised what it was almost instantly, memories left over from his sojourn in the Great Machine rising in his mind. But he was paralysed by a sheer lack of comprehension.
Not here! He had expected many things. Thenta Ma'Kur, alien mercenaries, common street thugs, but not this.
The thing that was not a Narn moved too quickly for him to react. One blow staggered him and the second felled him.
He stared up into the sun with unblinking eyes.
Not a Faceless. He had never expected a Shadowspawn here.
He told me once, bitter and angry, how much he resented being a legend. He would have been happy to have his name forgotten and erased from history. Alas, by writing this tome I fear I have removed any hope of that.
But most of all he wished to have his message remembered, his words, his meaning. That was what mattered, not his name.
I hope I have managed to do that, even a little.
No one noticed as the body of Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar was removed.
In less than a minute it was as if he had never been there at all.
L'Neer of Narn, Learning at the Prophet's Feet.
* * *
John J. Sheridan. Saviour of the galaxy. Defender of the true and the virtuous.
You can hide no secrets from me, Sheridan.
All was dark, save for the light of the tiny candle at the foot of the mirror. The mirror was vast, towering up as far as the eye could see, but all he could see in it was himself, staring back at him, speaking with a voice not his own.
"Is this a dream?" he asked himself.
That depends. Are you a man dreaming you are a ghost, or a ghost dreaming you are a man? Is anything real? Is Delenn real, or is her touch only an illusion? Am I real?
"Who are you?"
Who are you?
We have been over this, Sheridan. You don't know who you are. Look, we have stripped everything away, you and I. All that remains is the darkness, a tiny light, the mirror, and yourself. Shorn of all encumbrances and burdens and duties. Here of all places you can surely know who you are.
"How can any of us answer that question?"
Very well, then. Another question. A different one. Who do you want to be?
"My father," he replied instantly. "I want to be my father."
The one who joined the Shadows, who allied with them, fought for them, sent countless millions to their deaths in their cause?
"No. That man was not my father. That man was someone who once had been my father. I want to be my father as he was when I was a child."
Both men are one and the same, surely. The man you remember became the man who served the Shadows. The man who served the Shadows still had some of the man who poured water on to your roof at night to help you sleep. Which man was real, and which the illusion?
"They were both real, and whatever he did, he was still my father. I forgave him, at the end."
After all he did, you still forgive him?
"Yes."
You believe in redemption, then? You believe that a man might be forgiven his sins, his errors, whether intentional or not — they can all be forgiven and atoned for? Any man can seek redemption?
Or any woman?
"I…."
Can you be forgiven, Sheridan? The things you did, is there absolution for them?
"I…."
You forgave your father. Why not yourself? What is it you have done that you cannot forgive, Sheridan? You killed Minbari, a great many of them, but that was war. You sent people to die in your war, but that was for a greater cause, was it not? You took up arms against your own people, but it was for their own good. You killed your wife on the deck of your own ship, but that was just a misunderstanding. Not your fault at all. You left Delenn and your unborn child on Z'ha'dum, but your instincts told you she was dead, and you did not know she was pregnant, so what blame there?
What can you not forgive, Sheridan?
No answer, not for me…. not for yourself. No answer….
"I…. I can't…. I can't forgive any of…." Sheridan looked up. The mirror was empty. He reached forward to touch it and it shattered at his touch. Behind it lay a small walking stick, topped with silver. He made to pick it up, but it was impossibly hot to his touch.
"Where are you?" he called. "Where are you?"
There was no answer.
* * *
Senna lay quietly on the bed, staring up at the grey ceiling. The pain in her back had lessened, but it had never really gone away. She doubted it ever would. Still, sometimes she was glad of it. The pain there was physical, easily attributable to something clear and obvious. The other types of pain she was feeling were not so easy to forget.
They were travelling through hyperspace now. The entire fleet. A group of monsters and traitors and cowards. They were going to attack Centauri Prime.
Her homeworld.
Her home.
And they were being led by the man who should have been defending her people against them.
Her cheek still stung, her lip was red and bleeding. The blow had taken her completely by surprise, and it had been a very long time before she had stopped shaking. She had not thought he would….
The sheer anger in his eyes blazed in her mind again and she closed her eyes tightly. If she could not see it, it was not there. That was what her nurse had told her.
She had lied.
They were all here now, in the dark. She could feel Rem Lanas' fingers sliding over her skin, hear his voice in his ear. She could feel again the impact of Marrago's fist on her jaw. She could see again those colossal monsters ripping apart her bodyguard with their bare hands and rending the carcass between their teeth. She could see again their master calmly watching, as though they were no more than animals squabbling over a meal.
And now all the monsters would be free to do it again. More people would be killed, more children left orphaned, more rapes, more torture, more death. More and more. It would never end.
She could still feel Rem Lanas' hands on her. She had never screamed for him, not once. She had wanted to. The pain in her throat from holding back had built and built until she felt as if she were inhaling fire with every breath.
She opened her eyes, realising that she was sobbing, her body shaking uncontrollably.
She rose from the bed and walked to the door, making to open it, but then jumped back as if the handle were red hot. He might be there. He had struck her once. She had thought he was a good man, but he was just like all the others.
A monster.
He was leading them to attack Centauri Prime.
Her homeworld.
Her home.
Still sobbing, she threw herself against the door and slid down to the floor. Something caught her eye on the floor and she picked it up slowly.
It was a knife.
She rested her head against the door, still sobbing, and placed the knife against the soft skin of her arm.
It did not hurt. None of the cuts did. Not even when all the blood began to flow from her shoulder, from her stomach, none of it hurt.
That was good. She had had enough pain in her life already.
* * *
It was possible that they all had some presentment of what was to come. Emperor Londo Mollari in his silent slumber. The Lady Consort Timov in her meditations and prayer for her husband's life. Mr. Morden in his quiet writing. The Inquisitors in their never-ending duties.
Susan Ivanova waiting and whistling on the pinnacle of Cathedral.
It began with the Tuchanq, armed with their stolen technology, fuelled by hatred directed at a blameless target. Already battered and torn and destroyed from wars without end, Centauri Prime would fall before their vengeance,
