The Shadows bore down on Sanctuary, surrounding it completely. Bester watched, and recognised the strategy. They would undoubtedly prefer to take the station if at all possible. There were a great many resources available on board, and the Shadows needed telepaths of their own for their ships.
He would not let that happen to his people.
A message was sent to Sanctuary. He did not bother listening to it. There was no point.
With the press of a button an explosion ripped through the station, and the entire structure was consumed by fire. Shards of debris were blown outwards, tearing into the ships. Hopefully, some of them had been close enough to be damaged or even destroyed, although Bester had few illusions as to the strength of the Shadow vessels.
He turned away from the screen that showed Sanctuary's destruction. The station had become important to him over the past few years, almost a home. But any tool that cannot be discarded if necessary is not a tool, but a trap.
From its safe point in hyperspace, the
'Our probes picked their approach up easily enough,' said his companion, and, strangely enough for a mundane, his friend. 'We got out almost everything we hadn't already moved elsewhere.'
Bester nodded.
'So.... what now?'
'Now, Captain?' He turned to look at Captain Ari Ben Zayn. 'Now we wait. We sit back, and we wait. Let our enemies tear themselves apart. We can always come out and pick up the pieces, whether it takes us a year, or a century.
'The galaxy hasn't heard the last of us yet.'
Emperor of the Centauri Republic was seldom seen as a job with much of a future, especially these days. The last two incumbents had been assassinated, with the last one, Emperor Refa, having sat on the Purple Throne for less than two days.
Londo Mollari had few illusions as to his chances for long-term survival. Oh, matters had certainly improved in the half-a-year since he had taken the throne, but to say all was perfect would be blatantly untrue.
The Emperor, as it had been said in an old poem, sat alone, far beyond the reach of those who could only cower at his feet. It had been meant as a compliment, feeding the vanity of those who saw themselves as Gods. Londo recognised it for what it was: a curse. He was alone, and would be alone for the rest of his life.
But still, he had friends, a few at least. There were Marrago and Durano, whose loyalty and friendship towards him were matched only by their growing hatred of each other. There was Timov, dear, dear Timov. There was Lennier....
And there were a few others who could not be with him now, burdened as they were by their own concerns. Delenn sprang to mind, and he wondered how she was doing. He had heard very little of outside events since he had returned to Centauri Prime over a year ago. He had heard about the bombardment of Minbar and about a great battle at Epsilon 3, but nothing else.
It was time to end that. It was time to take the Centauri Republic back to the thrones and parliaments of the galaxy. They had waited, on Marrago's advice, determined to go to the Alliance and the others as equal partners, rather than on bended knee. Now, thanks to their victory, they could do that. Marrago's luck had certainly improved since the last time he and Londo had gambled together: he could hardly believe the ease of their victory. He must have pulled off one of his legendary miracles.
Londo was no soldier, and he was very glad of it. Leave that to Marrago and Carn and the others. His mind was on diplomacy and long-term planning. First, bring the Republic back to the notice of the great powers of the galaxy, the Alliance in particular. Secondly, seek some sort of accommodation with the Alliance, and begin working on a peace treaty with the Narns. There were more important concerns now than their rivalry. Third....
He nodded to his guards as he strolled past them into his private quarters. He had been ambling idly through the palace for hours, musing on things past and things present and things better. His security had been well attended to.
He paused and looked up as he entered the room. There was someone here, seated beside his bed. In the shadows he could not see who it was, although he was sure he knew this person. He raised his light globe. 'Who is there?' he asked.
'I realise it has been a long time,' said a familiar voice, and Londo found himself smiling, 'but I would like to think you would remember me. Unless of course you have no time for your old friends now that you have risen to such high office.'
'G'Kar!' he laughed, as the Narn stepped forward and bowed.
'Indeed, Mollari. I thought it past time to pay you a personal visit. We have a great deal to talk about.'
Kats sat alone, trapped in a prison of her own making, torn apart from the two constants in her life this past year. She had never felt such pain as she felt now: the pain of betrayal, of loss, of sorrow.
She was alone.
Sinoval had departed the day before, having made arrangements for the running of his demesne in his absence. He had spoken to Durhan, he had arranged for some of the Soul Hunters to remain behind.... and then he had come to her.
It had been the first time they had spoken since he had brought her the news of Kozorr's betrayal. Nothing had been right between them since then. Actually, nothing had been right since Kozorr's 'death' here at Tarolin 2. She had once claimed to be his conscience, his angel, his wisdom. She had been acutely aware of the position to which she had been raised, and she had resolved not to abuse it. But how could she wield any power when she barely had the power to help herself?
She had listened to his intentions carefully, making no comment. She was his conscience, but she could not bring herself to advise on his course of action. She could see the anger growing behind his dark eyes: he had once said she was the only person who could read him at all.
She could see the darkness that was threatening to engulf the hope of the Minbari people, and yet she had said nothing.
He was going to Kazomi 7. He was going to speak to the leaders of all the races in this war, and try to warn them about the Vorlons, if that could be done. And if that was not possible, then he might be forced to do something else. She thought she could sense the dark plan forming in his mind, but she could not give voice to her fears. She could hardly hope to criticise him, when she had so much to criticise in herself.
He had given his traditional blessing as he had left. 'Be at peace, my lady, and be happy.' She had said nothing, unable even to find the words.
And now he was gone, and she was alone. Kozorr was gone, and she was alone.
The door opened, and she looked up. She was supposed to be meditating, but that had been growing more and more difficult of late. Most people knew of the times set aside for her privacy and respected them, except in dire emergency.
The new arrival was a warrior, who wore Sinoval's personal crest. She was one of the new order then, one of those who had cast aside old clans and old loyalties, and taken to calling themselves the Primarch's Blades. Trained and commanded personally by Sech Durhan — at least since Kozorr's 'death' - they were fanatically loyal to Sinoval, and deeply respectful to those they saw as his friends, of which she was one.
The warrior knelt formally, stretching her pike out towards Kats in a time-honoured gesture of loyalty and submission. Kats never failed to be puzzled by this. She could still remember the days when such people would have openly spit on her in the street, and Kalain's genocide of the worker caste had ended less than two years ago.
'There is someone here to see you, my lady,' the warrior said, using the worker caste language instead of the warrior dialect. Another sign of respect. 'She says she is known to you, and she claims to have a message for the Primarch.'
'Who is it?' Kats asked softly.
'She has given us the name Sherann.'
'That's impossible,' Kats breathed softly. 'Show her in.'
The warrior nodded and rose, heading for the door. Kats rose as well, following her softly. This was impossible. All word had been that Sherann had been killed in the massacres, one of the countless victims of
