With muttered imprecations he began gathering up his papers. He dared not be late.
The old man was thinking about his childhood again. Thinking about a time when he had not been a man of destiny, not had the burden of the future of humanity on his shoulders, not had all the responsibilities and duties he bore now, was not buried by all these secrets.
There were precious few people he could confide in, even fewer he could talk to as a friend. Zento meant well, but he could not understand. He saw all of this as a sort of game, a simple pattern of the movement of pieces on a board, with profit just the means of keeping score.
The old man sighed. Zento did not understand, but he was necessary where he was. He was the public face of IPX, the representation of all the things the company was meant to stand for. He provided a convenient cover for the.... true face of the corporation.
Very few people did fully understand. Morden was one of them. The old man supposed that was one of the reasons he enjoyed Morden's company. He was a good friend, and a useful sounding board. He also understood clearly the true stakes of this game.
Morden entered the room, smiling in his usual fashion. 'Good morning,' said the old man. 'I trust you slept well.'
'Like a baby, thank you.'
'Good, good. Help yourself to some orange juice.' A little legacy of his childhood, one he was vainly trying to recreate. Morden poured himself a glass. 'I suppose you saw the news last night.'
'Which piece of news were you referring to?'
'I think you know.'
Morden sipped at his drink, sitting down. 'Yes. I was under the impression Delenn was not to be our concern any longer.'
'You and me both, but no.... it seems we were mistaken about her, or about the Enemy perhaps. Everything we knew about her indicated that she would take some sort of suicide device with her when she went to Z'ha'dum. She had a meeting with the technomage before she left, so we assumed all would go as planned. Ah....' The old man sighed again. Nothing seemed to be going right any more. 'Either we were wrong, or the Enemy discovered her plan.'
'So what do we do now? I take it we can't let out the truth about her journey to Z'ha'dum.'
'Not at all. Word is definitely going to get out that she is still alive. Well, that will only accelerate the timetable a bit. If the Alliance needs any more reason for war than that we're holding their leader here on war crimes charges, then I don't know what else will do it.'
'Are we ready for that?'
'A few more months would be nice, but we'll have time before the Alliance gets here. In fact, with a little.... careful timing we might be able to arrange things just right.... We need to keep Delenn alive just long enough for the Alliance to think they might be able to rescue her, but ensure she dies just as they get here. Anyway, we're working on delaying the trial for the foreseeable future, so that's something.'
'Is the Alliance going to.... co-operate?'
'They must. Sheridan will be able to push them in this direction even if they don't already have enough of an incentive. The Enemy has let itself be drawn into an all-or-nothing now, and a war between humanity and the Alliance is in their best interests anyway.'
'And Byron?'
'May well find himself awoken a little sooner than we had planned. Ah well, the best-laid plans of mice and men, so to speak.... How long will you be staying? Have you received any orders yet?'
'No, not yet. There was talk that I might be needed on Minbar, but conditions there are.... a little hazardous at the moment. The....' Morden smiled. 'The Sinoval Project is all set to go ahead, and it might not be a good idea to hang around when everything hits the fan. I might need to go in later and help clean up. And the Centauri of course.... they're going to have to do without me for the time being.
'So,' he set aside his empty glass. 'For the moment, I'm all yours.'
'Good. It's.... nice having someone to talk to. Like old times, almost.' He suddenly looked up, an instant before his interior commchannel activated. Audio only, of course.
'Sir, you wanted to know when the guest awoke.'
'Ah, yes,' said the old man, smiling. 'Thank you, Lise. See that he is given food and drink and whatever else he might require, then send him to the interview room.'
'Yes, sir.' The commchannel went dead, and the old man smiled. 'The best secretary I've ever had.'
'Pretty too,' Morden noted dryly. 'So who's the guest?'
'Someone who.... might be useful. In a long-term capacity. Do you want to sit in on the interview?'
'I don't have anything else to do. I'd love to.'
The old man smiled. It was strange, he thought, how a glass of orange juice and a moment's conversation with an old friend could ease a troubled mind. He was feeling much more confident now, so much the better to deal with life's trials and tribulations.
He stretched, and began mentally to prepare himself for the 'interview'.
'I am a warrior.
'I ride amongst the stars. My sword clashes in the winds. I dance at the height of the storm. The moon is my shield. My wings are of fire.
'I am a warrior. I shall not fall. I shall not let an enemy pass from my sight. I will walk in the dark places and I shall know no fear.
'On death, my soul shall ascend to be judged by my ancestors and those who have come before. If found worthy....' Kozorr's rendition faltered as he stumbled over the words. He took a deep breath and continued. 'If found worthy I shall be reborn, with no memories of my past life, but with the knowledge that I am a warrior in more lives than this.'
He paused, and drew in another breath. The traditional meditation ritual of the warrior, spoken three times — once in darkness, with his pike in his hands; once in light and in motion, in the thrill of battle; and finally seated, at peace, in repose, the pike before him.
He had performed the ritual countless times in his life, but never more often than in recent months. Ever since his return from his failed mission to destroy Cathedral, his mind had been filled with disquieting thoughts and dark obsessions. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw Kats weeping, he saw Sinoval standing tall and proud and whole and unharmed.
He heard the booming voice of the Well of Souls, condemning him for his treason.
'I am a warrior,' he said wearily. Meditation brought him no peace these days. Sleep brought no rest, only dark dreams.
He leant forward and picked up his pike. He looked at it. Reforging it had been difficult. Many held that a fighting pike was a holy, sacred thing, not to be touched once the perfection had left the bladesmith's soul and immortalised itself in metal. He had had no choice. A denn'bok was a two-handed weapon, and he had only one.
He raised his ruined, crippled right hand and tried to move his broken fingers. He could not, of course. The skin had been burned, the muscle flayed away, the bones shattered beyond all hope of repair. To a casual observer there might appear to be nothing wrong. His hand and fingers were wrapped tightly in thick bandages and covered with a warrior's glove, much as he wore on his left hand. He had the semblance at least of full strength.
Until he tried to move it.
He had been a fool. Not in sustaining the injuries. He still heard Kats' agonised screams and he would willingly have suffered such wounds again to free her, a thousand times over. No, he had been a fool to think she could love him, a cripple, a weakling. He had hesitated for too long in acting against Kalain, and when he had acted he had failed miserably. He was not worthy of her, not fitting to stand beside her, to protect her. She deserved a true warrior.
Someone like Sinoval.
He scowled, and bit back that thought. Sinoval was a great warrior, yes, but he had betrayed the Minbari people. He had brought great enemies down upon all their heads, he had abandoned the homeworld....
