"I heard that someone else is here. A human."
A cold chill settled on Kats' body.
"Tall, pale skin. Archaic clothing. A tall black hat."
"A staff," Kats whispered.
Tirivail nodded.
"Sebastian," she said again.
"The same. The head of the Vorlon Inquisition." Tirivail snapped the denn'bok closed and fixed it to her belt. "I am going to find him."
"No."
"Do not try to…."
"No!" Tirivail took a slow step back. Kats continued without a pause. "You are a warrior sworn in service to the Grey Council. I am Satai sworn and oath — bound. I have stood in the circle and the column. I have stood between the candle and the star.
"You owe me service and obeisance."
Tirivail's dark eyes flashed. "He loved you," she whispered. "That is why I serve you."
"Then that will have to be enough. Where is Sebastian? You will take me to him."
"No."
"You will take me to him. I am not afraid."
Tirivail moved angrily to the door, then looked back, waiting for Kats to follow.
"I am," she said harshly.
* * *
will
* * *
"I am not afraid," G'Kar said, with soft, despairing finality.
"I am not afraid to die. I have done many things of which I could feel ashamed, but I have always believed that my actions would lead to a better world. I have striven for so long for peace.
"I have served you as well as I was able. I will admit to having made mistakes. I am not perfect, and the more I learn, the more I realise just how truly imperfect I am, but I have tried.
"I have tried to build and to create and to make the world better.
"I formed the Rangers to fight the Shadow that G'Quan had prophesied would return. I led them, and I sent many of them to their deaths. I believed then that it was a just and righteous cause, and I still do.
"I let one of you inhabit me, and I do not regret that.
"I have seen so many things, some terrible and some wonderful. I have seen the wonder in a young child's eyes as she learns she is to live, and I have seen the terror in a man's eyes as he knows he is to die.
"I am old, and I am tired, and I am no traitor.
"Kill me if you wish."
The Vorlon remained there, drifting lazily and majestically in the air above him. The tip of the tentacle reached down to within a fraction of an inch of his good eye. Another slid around his back.
He heard its voice, the voice of the authority, of the magistrate, of the judgment, of the executioner.
<You have always served us well. You are no traitor.>
The light seemed to recede, rushing backwards into the encounter suit in one swift, smooth motion. The suit closed and the headpiece turned, the eye stalk glowing brightly.
<You have served us well,> it said again. <You may be permitted to live. Speak of what you have seen here. Speak of what happens to those who betray us.>
"I will," G'Kar said, hollowly. "Believe me in that. I will."
The Vorlon turned and left, leaving the smoking charnel house where five powerful and influential people had just discovered the true nature of power.
G'Kar waited until he could be sure the Vorlon was gone, and then he began to run.
* * *
obey
* * *
The anger he felt was so great as to overwhelm all rational thought. He had passed beyond grief and loss and sorrow, and all General John Sheridan felt now was a fury that could destroy stars themselves.
He found David in his office, frantically trying to use the commpanel.
David looked up as he entered. "Where have you been?" he asked. "The internal sensors are going crazy. Someone's been throwing around colossal amounts of energy in Blue Sector. No one can find Kulomani, or G'Kar, or any of the Ambassadors. The jump gate is closed. Delenn's just vanished off…."
"Delenn doesn't matter," he said sharply, the tiniest manifestation of the rage within him.
"What? John, what…?" He watched as David's eyes narrowed, darkening. "Oh," he said simply. "I see. Was this all just a joke then? Did you come all that way and drag me back here just to go through all this again?"
"Everything's a joke. If you haven't worked that out yet, you should just get back to building mud huts on Minbar."
"God's sake…. look at the mess you've made. No, we've all made it, but I've had enough of it." David walked towards the door, brushing past him angrily, pushing him aside. At the door he turned back. "Everything's going to hell in a handbasket, as a former friend of mine would say. It's a pity he isn't here. At least he'd be trying to fix this."
"Get out."
He did.
General John J. Sheridan sat down at his desk, looking at the energy readouts. He recognised what David had not, that the sheer amount of energy could only have been generated by a Vorlon. Someone very stupid had annoyed one of them.
"To hell with all of you," he whispered.
Something was rubbing at the back of his skull, an itch he could not scratch. He had a name for that, though.
Somehow he was not surprised.
"You as well," he muttered. "Well, Sinoval, come on in and join the party, everyone else has."
He looked the commpanel and sent out a quick signal. This line he knew would be working. If everything else on the station collapsed, this would still be working.
"I know you're there," he said. "I think we need to talk."
-- We are always ready for you, — came the Vorlon's voice.
"I'll be there in a minute. We should do this face to face, as it were. Oh, I suppose you know that Sinoval's on his way."
-- We were aware. We are prepared. This is our stronghold. We will not allow it to be breached by such as him. --
"How soon we forget," he muttered. "Don't you lot always have a plan."
* * *
us
* * *
The jump gate was closed, barred and sealed against the travellers, the common wanderers, the pilgrims and the seekers. The station was protected, charmed and blessed by the Dark Stars and the Alliance vessels and the very presence of the Vorlons themselves.
But that was not always enough.
A jump point opened, and then another, and another. Ships emerged through them, ships crafted of living flesh, linked to the souls of their owners.
The Vorlon fleet was a beautiful thing, but it was the beauty of a star exploding in the night: wondrous from a distance, terrifying up close.
The voice that spoke was audible to every being on the station.
We are your masters.
We are your protectors.
This place is ours.
You will obey us.
* * *
you
* * *
Audible to every person except one….
* * *
will
* * *
What am I?
At that moment, Delenn felt an intense, powerful hatred. Of John, for abandoning her; of herself, for abandoning him; and most of all of Sinoval.
What am I?
He had always been so sure, so confident. She could have managed that, once. Before the weight of her mistakes, both real and imagined, had weighed down on her so heavily. He did not seem to care about the mistakes he made, simply forgetting them and carrying on his way.
What am I?
Not who. She had been asked that question once before, and had not answered it, not properly, not in any way that could be called an answer, because the point of the question was that there was no answer, none that could be expressed to another.
What am I?
But that was a question she could answer, if only by a list of what she was not.
I am not a mother.
Her son had died in her body, his fading heartbeat echoing in her ears.
I am not a wife.
The man she loved had left her, abandoning her to this place of dust and memory and haunting echoes.
I am not a warrior.
She hated to kill, to fight. She had seen too much of that.
I am not a leader.
She had tried, and failed, so many times. This world did not need her leadership. She had betrayed and doomed her people and now it seemed she had doomed the Alliance as well.
I am a healer.
She paused, and dared to raise her head. It seemed so heavy.
I am a healer.
Everything was wounded. Her people, the Alliance, the galaxy. Everywhere she looked, she saw symptoms of the sickness. All she had been able to do was wipe flecks of blood from the mouth of the galaxy.
I am a healer.
She was.
Breathing out harshly, Delenn slowly pulled herself to her feet. Her injured ankle throbbed at her, but she ignored it.
I am a healer.
"I am a healer," she said aloud, and the words seemed to invigorate her. The shadows trembled and fled before her newfound resolve.
"I am a healer," she said, more loudly.
The paths of the garden, that had seemed so dark and twisted, were now open and clear.
She set off, walking firmly, with no hint of any of the wounds that pained her.
* * *
obey
* * *
He woke up, cold, and with no idea of where he was.
Or even who he was.
He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He had a feeling that he had been staring at a deeper darkness, one that was far more than the simple absence of light.
A heart beating, that was it. The dying heartbeat in the sky.
Black.
It was black.
There is danger. Remember.
"Dexter Smith," he said, aloud. "My name is Dexter Smith."
He heard a movement by his side, and strained to look. His every muscle protested, but he managed it. There was a woman sitting on a chair, her long legs tucked up underneath her. She was waking from sleep.
He looked at her and looked again, not sure of what he was seeing. She was pretty, tall and slender, with shoulder — length blonde hair and delicate hands. And she was dying. He could see glimpses of a skeleton under the surface, the skin rotting and decaying, the smell of the grave rising from her.
He blinked and concentrated, trying to force himself to see what was really there. The images of death faded as he looked at her again, although the miasma was still apparent.
She stood up, unfolding carefully and delicately, a watchful eye on him. "Who am I?" she asked him, slowly and precisely.
He closed his eyes again and breathed out. There is danger. Remember. My name is Dexter Smith. I am a Senator of Proxima Three. I am a war hero. I am a poker player. I am a Taurus. I am….
"Talia," he said, with a slow sigh. "You're Talia, surname variable most of the time."
"First name, too," she breathed. He looked at her for a third time and noticed the gun in her hand. She placed it on the table beside her, then walked forward and knelt by the side of the bed, taking his hand in her own. There was a flicker of electricity at the contact, and he almost jumped back. Her skin was cold and clammy, beaded with the moisture of the grave.
"I'm glad you're back," she said. "I was worried."
"There is danger," he said. "Remember."
"Yes. That's what saved us. Vindrizi kept saying it, over and over again. It…. did something. You'll have to ask him what."
"Where am I?"
"A safe haven."
"Are you alive?"
She blinked, once. "Yes," she said, pressing her hand against the side of his face. "Don't I feel alive?"
She didn't. He shivered at the touch of her skin. He could feel the bones beneath, shifting and cracking, a thousand tiny weaknesses and flaws spreading by the minute.
"I don't know," he replied. "Am I alive?"
"Yes," she breathed. "You're alive, Dexter."
"Good." He paused, biting at his lower lip. "Good."
"We'll be leaving tomorrow, as soon as you're ready to move. The others wanted to leave long ago, and most of them did, but Vindrizi said you couldn't be moved. It might be dangerous. Even taking you away from…. the warehouse might have been too dangerous."
"Death."
"He said you could do worse than die. We're leaving tomorrow, going somewhere safe."
"No such place." He looked at her and, concentrating, he could see the natural, ephemeral beauty of her face. "Where?"
"Vindrizi says there's someone who'll be able to help. I'm not sure how much of it you remember, but I'll fill you in on everything later. We're going to see Sinoval."
"Oh." He hesitated, and closed his eyes for the final time that night. He could see it again, rising from the Box.
"Good," he said finally.
* * *
us
* * *
Sebastian could hear her footsteps from the other side of the station, even the other side of the galaxy. He could close his eyes and feel the warmth of her breath and smell the scent of her fear. He had touched her once, studied her soul and her spirit, and once he had done that to someone, to anyone, he would forevermore feel them in the back of his mind, particularly when they thought of him. More than once he had dreamed their nightmares, smiling with self — satisfaction at the aftereffects of his work.
He was a man who took great pride in his job.
Still, he gave no indication that he knew of her approach, not until she was directly behind him. She had brought her companion, the one so filled with anger and hatred and barely — suppressed fear. The companion remained several feet behind, too afraid to step into the circumference of his shadow.
There had been no one to stop them, no guards. What would be the point? Nothing and no one could harm him, not while he was engaged in his holy work.
He waited for precisely two and a half seconds, to let that scent of anticipation rise from her, and then he spoke.
"A good day to you, Satai Kats," he said simply.
Another man might have expected an angry response, bitter sarcasm or the like. But not him, and not from her. He knew her. He knew her soul. She was afraid, but she had a particular kind of iron resolve. She would never mask her fear with anger, not like her companion.
Sebastian almost admired that.
"And to you, Mr. Sebastian," she replied, a cold formality in her voice.
"A marvellous view, is it not?" He gestured to the vista from the observatory. "It never ceases to remind me just how small and insignificant we are. We mortals, beneath the shadow of space, with the light from the stars so faint, so far away, and yet so beautiful. Very few are truly capable of staring into the infinite, even fewer from my home. We are a rare breed, those of us who can do that and remain unchanged."
