In recent years Dexter Smith had been involved in quite a lot of combat. That, of course, had been ship-to- ship, large-scale battles, or perhaps the more personal fighting that occurred when one ship or the other was being boarded.
It had been a long time since his last no-holds-barred, bar-room brawl or fight for his life. But there had been a time, before he had joined Earthforce, when there had been no one able to take him on. Not because he was stronger, or faster, or better armed.... but because in Sector 301, he fought meaner and dirtier than anyone else around.
Swivelling on the floor, he lashed out with his foot, catching Drake's knee and knocking it aside. Drake staggered, but managed to remain on his feet, and Smith cursed his lack of practice. In the old days he'd been able to break a man's knee with that manoeuvre, and that would pretty much end any fight.
As it was, he had time to get to his feet and shake the cobwebs from his head. His blood was roaring now, but his thoughts were icy calm. It was as though his soul had entered a tranquil void, where what happened to his body did not affect it.
Drake moved forward, more cautiously this time. He was good at this. He did not just want to beat Smith but to kill him, and he was more than capable of keeping his anger in check if it meant he could manage that.
He slashed out in an exploratory motion, and Smith dodged back. Testing his reach, Drake attacked again, and once more Smith avoided the blow. There was a table here, just behind him. He could feel it as he moved back. Another two steps.... that was all.
His opponent could clearly see it as well, and charged. Smith sidestepped, but Drake had been expecting that, and swivelled on the balls of his feet, slashing out with the knife. It tore through Smith's shirt, and there was a sharp pain across his ribs.
In his void Smith did not feel the pain, but he knew it was there. He dropped down a little and let Drake rise above him. Swiftly striking out, he rained two quick punches on Drake's side, and heard his attacker grunt. He rolled aside and leapt to his feet.
Drake followed up on him at considerable speed, surprising given his size. Smith grabbed behind him, and felt a chair there. In one swift motion he spun it around, and felt it connect with Drake's arm.
Drake fell back, still silent. He was not swearing or blustering. He was perfectly calm and cold and silent. He stepped back slowly, shifting his weight, ready for Smith to make the next move. Smith dropped the chair and began to consider his options. In the void time seemed to move differently. He became aware of the flurry of emotions in Drake's mind, kept at bay by an iron wall of discipline and self-denial.
Acting on what almost seemed like instinct, Smith tweaked the mass of anger and hatred and fear slightly, and the wall fell apart.
Roaring insanely, Drake charged forward, brandishing the dagger high in the air. Smith easily sidestepped the attack, spun around, and delivered a hard kick to the back of his opponent's knee. Drake went down, stumbling, but managed to roll aside from the stamp that was aimed at the small of his back.
Smith came down hard on Drake's wrist, and with a cry the knife slipped from his fingers. Just as the prone man tried to rise, Smith brought his foot down on his neck.
'Did Trace order this?' he asked, his void of tranquillity shattering. 'Or was it a personal thing?'
Drake chuckled. 'You're a dead man,' he hissed. 'A very very dead man. Mr. Trace owns this sector, and anyone who tries fighting him.... well, that depends on his mood. Sometimes they get one chance. Sometimes they don't. Guess which group you're in.'
'I'm still alive, aren't I? You failed to get rid of me. I don't think Mr. Trace will be all that happy about that.'
'I haven't failed yet.'
Drake suddenly grabbed Smith's foot and pushed him backwards. Smith staggered, and watched Drake lunge for the discarded dagger. With his left hand Drake began to grip the hilt carefully. Smith darted forward and brought his foot down hard at the top of Drake's spine.
There was a sickening sound, and he knew what had happened almost instantly. He could somehow.... feel the life leaching from Drake's body.
Turning the man over, his suspicions were confirmed. The blade of the knife was stuck deep into his neck.
Smith turned to look at Bo, still shaking behind the bar. 'G.... get out of here,' Bo breathed. 'Get out of the sector. Security will be after you.'
Smith nodded, his void of calm collapsed. Wincing at the sudden pain from the slash along his ribs, he fled from the bar.
Ambassador G'Kael watched the meeting of the United Alliance Council with a mixture of amusement and terror. He was only now beginning to recognise just how much the whole Alliance rested on a small handful of figures, and with only three of them here, it seemed it was ready to tear itself apart.
He had been unsure how to regard this appointment when the Kha'Ri had broached it to him a few months ago. The Alliance had been growing in power and prestige for some time, and Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar was rumoured to have given it his full support. Some representation was needed, but the Kha'Ri had been in fierce debate as to just what sort of representation. The war with the Centauri had been occupying most of their attention, and they did not want to spare any of their number from the First Circle. On the other hand, a minor diplomat from the Third Circle or below could easily be perceived as an insult.
It had been a difficult balancing act, but eventually G'Kael had been chosen, a decision that had surprised many, especially himself. Councillor Na'Toth had later told him that she had personally sponsored him for the position, and that she had every confidence in him. What she had not told him was that the recommendation had come from a somewhat higher source — the famed Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar himself.
Now with Na'Toth all but deposed from her position of influence in the Kha'Ri and currently residing on Kazomi 7 itself, G'Kael had been expecting to be recalled to Narn, or at least to have Na'Toth made Ambassador here. Neither had happened, and in fact there had been no word from Narn other than the regular, run-of-the-mill stuff. The Kha'Ri seemed too set on the war.
G'Kael had once, more out of curiosity than anything else, gone to the G'Khorazhar Shrine, to hear a speech by Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar. He remembered one thing the great preacher had said.
'This is the doom of mortal beings.... that we shall not see the beast until our heads are between its jaws.'
G'Kael was beginning to believe no one back home could see the true beast, and would not until it decided to close its mouth.
But then, as he looked around a Council chamber bereft of the Blessed Delenn, of the Starkiller Sheridan, of the Technomage Vejar and of the Vorlon Ambassador, he was wondering if the Alliance Council could see the beast either.
The big topic of discussion was the refusal of the Abbai to join the Alliance formally. Negotiations, treaty pacts, diplomatic dinners and the like had been going on for some time, until the Abbai had suddenly and abruptly pulled out. Their polite letter did not give a reason, but everyone knew what it was.
'They are cowards!' cried Taan Churok, the Drazi former bartender and Minister for Defence. 'Weak-willed cowards. We should let the Shadows take them!'
G'Kael did not see it quite that way. He had not seen these 'Shadows' in person, but he had seen recordings made of the Battle of the Great Machine, or the Third Line as some people were calling it. If these Shadows were as terrifying in real life as they looked in hologram, then he did not blame anyone for not wanting to fight them.
Thus far their ships had not turned towards Narn, despite their Ambassador's promise in this very room. If that did happen, what would the Kha'Ri do? He did not know, and that troubled him. They might decide to take war fully to the Shadows, but then they might prefer to leave the Alliance to its fate. The Narn Regime was not as yet a member of the Alliance, and it was uncertain if it ever would be. For the moment the two governments saw themselves as potentially useful allies, potentially dangerous enemies, and people it would be useful to keep an eye on.
'They are afraid,' replied the more pragmatic Lethke. The Brakiri was Minister for the Economy, but he often seemed to take on the duty of defusing dangerous confrontations between the hot-headed Drazi and some of the
