He…. wanted information from me. I…. ah…. I managed to escape.'
Sinoval smiled. 'Someone is favouring us at last, then. Come…. you need to rest, I am sure. You do not look…. well.'
'I am tired, nothing more,' he replied, shrinking away from Sinoval's touch. 'It has not been easy.'
'I do not doubt it. Still, I am very glad you have returned to us, Kozorr. Kats will be also. She…. told me what happened. She was…. feeling very guilty.'
Kozorr bowed his head. 'It was the only choice to make. I would do it again if I had to. You would have done the same.'
'I hope so,' came the soft reply. 'Come, I will find a healer for you, and then you can rest. You look as though you need it.'
'No!' he snapped quickly, and Sinoval looked surprised. 'No. No healers. Where…. is Kats? I would like to see her.'
Sinoval chuckled softly. 'And she would like to see you too, my friend. Very much. She is on the surface, helping restore the records in the temporary Government building. I will guide you there…. unless you would rather see her alone.'
'I would.'
He nodded. 'I understand. My blessings on you both.'
Kozorr looked startled, but then he nodded and turned away, not really understanding. Sinoval had called him a friend, and he certainly thought so of Sinoval, but…. He had to prove himself to Kats, and he had to purify the taint on the Minbari people. Once the Soul Hunters were gone, then he, Kats and Sinoval could unite with Sonovar and the Tak'cha and take the war to the Enemy.
There was a brief movement in front of him, and a Soul Hunter came into view. Its ancient, hateful gaze fixed upon him for a moment, and then it stepped aside. Kozorr continued, thinking dark thoughts.
The Soul Hunter went to Sinoval, and they talked briefly, in hushed tones. Kozorr did not hear what they said, but Sinoval's expression was dark indeed.
They called it the Pit. Its more official designation was Sector 301 of the Main City Dome of Proxima 3, but the title of the Pit had been coined many years ago, and it had stuck.
It was appropriate as well, for the Pit was where Proxima dumped all its refuse, all its unwanted, all its discards, its trash, its rubbish. The security forces in the sector were notoriously corrupt, and all the MegaCorps avoided it like the plague.
It was a place of broken dreams and lost souls.
It was therefore hardly the sort of place one might expect to find a celebrated war hero, a man who had appeared among the Top Ten People of 2259 in
For former Captain Dexter Smith however, the Pit was home.
It had been a few weeks since his honourable discharge from Earthforce, and the time had passed in a sort of blur. He had declined a number of interviews with news reporters, an offer of a weekly column in
If only half the people now interested in him had had any clue as to what those 'long-term combat situations' had been like, the world might be a better place. A great many people claimed to want the truth about his experiences in the war, and he had only been able to shake his head and reply that, no, they didn't at all.
And so he had come to the Pit to disappear. That was easy. Things disappeared in the Pit with a depressing lack of effort. The news moved on; the big story at the moment being the launch of the new warship, the
Smith listened to all this, and shrugged. He did not know DeClerq all that well, but he certainly knew of the man. It was fortunate that the media hadn't been doing their homework recently. Otherwise they would be all over the 'Coward of Vega 7' leading one of the new warships.
Still, everyone deserved a second chance, and it wasn't as if experienced soldiers were all that thick on the ground any more.
Smith switched off the news channel and absently flicked through the others. The reception here in the Pit was less than perfect and some channels were unavailable, but from those could get he was far from impressed. It had been a while since he had watched any of the vidscreens, but surely things hadn't been this bad before? He paused briefly at a remake of Macbeth, but then shuddered the instant he heard the dialogue, and switched off.
Pacing up and down his apartment didn't alleviate his boredom for long either, especially as there wasn't much of his apartment to pace up and down in. He could have afforded a better place than this — most beggars could probably have afforded a better place than this — but he was…. content with his choice.
It reminded him of home.
He had been quite upset to hear that the apartment block he had been brought up in had been demolished. Upset, but far from surprised. The place had been a hazard to life and limb even then, before the massive inrush of refugees from Orion and elsewhere had swamped Proxima. Still, it had been…. a place to live. There were a few pleasant memories. Not many, admittedly, but a few.
Sighing in exasperation, he grabbed a coat and went out for a walk.
Another thing he would never get used to was wearing civilian clothes again. He had been wearing a uniform for over half his life, since he had joined Earthforce at fifteen following some creative accountancy over trivial details such as age, address and parentage. Fashions had been very different then, and he had no idea what to wear now. A vague wander around the precincts in the Meadowhall Dome had not helped much, and he had settled for what he could find. Of course, in Sector 301, that would mean he would stick out like a Pak'Ma'Ra at a gourmet luncheon, but it would have to do.
He had no idea where he was going, what he was going to do when he got there or who he could go to see.
He also had no idea that someone was watching him.
Delenn looked up at the monument before her and breathed out slowly. It was not complete yet, and maybe it never would be, but for the moment it was there; a testament to the bloodshed and death that had resulted in a renewed hope.
How fragile that hope seemed now. But even if the Alliance ended tomorrow, they would still have accomplished a great deal of good. That was something, at least. It did not seem a terribly comforting thought, but it was better than nothing.
The original plan had been to list on the giant archway everyone who had died during the Drakh invasion, but that had rapidly proved to be impossible. There were just too many dead, and the vast majority of them could not be identified. All the records had been destroyed and the immigration and trading lists had been less than accurate anyway.
Delenn had proposed another idea however, having once heard a story from John. It had seemed hauntingly appropriate, and not for the first time she had wondered at the poetry and beauty of the race she had very nearly destroyed.
Over three hundred years ago, there had been a bloody, terrible war among humanity. An entire generation of young men had been slaughtered. It had been called, with tragic inaccuracy, 'the war to end all wars'. Afterwards, in a bid for some sort of legacy, one of the nations involved had devised a new memorial. Six coffins were taken from among the thousands of unidentified dead wearing that country's uniform, and in a moving ceremony an ordinary soldier selected one of these coffins at random. One body, representing all the dead. One brave soul, serving as a reminder of all brave souls. The body was buried under a huge archway in the centre of the capital city, and an eternal flame lit to burn forever over the 'Tomb of the Unknown Warrior'.
That tomb was gone now, but the poetry of the concept remained, and Delenn had managed to reinstate it
