The realisation suddenly hit him. He couldn't feel a thing. No itching, no numbness, no sensation at all. He had countless old injuries there, old wounds that throbbed or itched. Nothing. An anaesthetic of some sort, perhaps?
He couldn't feel his arms.
He couldn't feel anything below his neck.
What had happened? He had been standing on the bridge of the Parmenion, alone. The ship was going to ram one of the Shadow vessels. He was going to die. Something…. something had exploded. He had turned, and the whole ship had shaken. He had fallen, hitting the floor, and something landed on top of him.
Something…. something had snapped.
"De…. Delenn!" he said, suddenly very afraid of what had happened. He knew he should let her sleep, but she was the only person he could see here. Perhaps the only person around. How had the battle gone anyway? Did Babylon 4 get safely back to the past?
"Delenn!"
She roused and sat up, rubbing at her eyes. Then her hands fell. "John," she whispered. "You're…. you're awake!"
She moved to his side and began touching his arms and fingers, caressing them gently. He could not feel her touch.
"Did…. did we win?"
"I…. It is hard to say…. truly. But yes…. we won."
He tried to nod, before realising he could not. He could not even sigh. His breathing was steady and regular, but quite independent of his control.
"What happened to me?" he whispered.
Tears in her eyes, she told him.
* * *
"I warned you about him. I knew he could not be trusted."
Alfred Bester sighed and leaned back in his chair. It had been a gamble, all of it. A desperate gamble, and it had failed. It had failed very badly, and that failure had quite possibly cost him everything.
"Sheridan's thrown his lot in with them now. Completely. It won't even make a difference if he's dead. His crew will follow his example. Damn him!"
He turned to look at his companion. Captain Ari Ben Zayn, an Earthforce veteran. A highly decorated soldier, survivor and leader of countless campaigns. He had always been a ground-based soldier however, and so had missed much of the action of the Minbari War. He had always been a useful friend and servant to Bester, and he had made a point of saving the man when it became clear that all was lost on Earth. Ben Zayn had been his most valued advisor, an expert on all things military, and the captain of the first of Bester's starships.
A mundane only, and that was sad. Were he but as gifted as the weakest of Bester's telepaths, he would have all the authority Bester could give him. As it was, he was kept ill-informed. He was still however the highest ranking of all Bester's mundane accomplices.
It was good that he had got away from Babylon 4 before the battle had begun. Exact news of what had happened was scarce, but early reports indicated that the devastation had been catastrophic, the death toll immense. Babylon 4 was gone. There was no word from the Great Machine. Donne was almost certainly dead. Garibaldi was either dead or had defected. A pity. Bester had actually liked him. A true shame.
A desperate gamble, and it had failed, but all was not over yet. It was true that Bester had made many enemies with that particular move, but he had other options.
He was running them through in his mind. Almost certain: G'Kar knew of his treachery, and that particular alliance was very dead. That would definitely mean Garibaldi was lost, as was everyone else who had been stationed at Babylon 4. Fortunately Donne had been the only telepath, at least the only one of his telepaths. Lyta Alexander had never really been his for a long time, not since the Vorlons had done something to her.
Probable: the United Alliance and G'Kar's Rangers knew he was not to be trusted. It was likely that they would have other concerns at present, especially if the fighting had been as bloody as reports indicated. Still, they might very well decide to come for him here at Sanctuary.
Possible: Ambassador Sheridan and the Resistance Government knew he had double-crossed them. That would depend on how many of their assault party was still alive. If they knew, retribution was almost inevitable. He knew full well just what a threat his people posed to the Shadows, and if he could not be their ally, then he was their enemy.
He sat forward. "Are you loyal to me, Ari?" he asked. He did not have to ask. He knew the answer even without scanning his mind.
Sanctuary was the key. It was too open and vulnerable. The Corps — and therefore he — had resources elsewhere; resources no one else knew about.
"Of course, Alfred," he said. "You don't need to ask that."
"Sanctuary is vulnerable at the moment. Very vulnerable. We may have to evacuate to…. other places. If that happens, I may need you to fight a holding action. We need an increase in the number of probes monitoring hyperspace from all directions, even the ones off the main channels. We will also need the Ozymandias in constant combat readiness. Make sure there are at least three…. no, four, telepaths on the ship at all times. Keep Harriman as your main telepath, but it is imperative that we have others."
"Of course," he said.
That was the beginning. Start moving out the most important things. Files, certain experiments….
And Talia. Yes, get her away from here as soon as possible.
She was, in his eyes, the most important thing not just on the station, but in his life.
* * *
His eyes.
They were what she remembered most clearly about him.
His eyes.
To any telepath a person's eyes were the mirrors of their soul. One look, and she could see everything she needed. His vulnerability, covered by a hardened shell of cynicism. A lost yearning for protection and a cause. He had been one of the first to join Sheridan's little war, and one of the first to die in that cause.
He was all that had mattered to her. She had accepted her loss, had resolved to continue, taking his cause for her own. The Vorlons had influenced her, manipulated her, but it had been the memory of his eyes she had seen every time she pushed herself forward.
Kosh was gone now as well, and she was alone again. She would not be alone for long, she knew. Another Vorlon would come for her soon, but there was a moment before that would happen, a chance to complete one last duty from the life she was soon to leave behind.
Lyta Alexander raised her PPG and pointed it squarely at the head of the sleeping Susan Ivanova. She would not wake up. A simple telepathic nudge would see to that. It might be…. better if Ivanova could see her death coming, but it would be easier this way.
There was a buzzing sound as she readied the weapon. Her grip firm and her posture straight, she kept it pointed at the slumbering woman.
She could not pull the trigger.
She swore silently and lowered the weapon. She was not a murderer, not in cold blood like this. She had thought she could, but…. It was fortunate her resolve had lasted her even this far.
"You deserve it," she whispered. "You deserve all this…."
But she could not do it. Not kill someone like this.
There was another way.
She stepped forward, and pocketed her gun. She was not sure how much time she would have, but there would be time enough for this. Slowly, hardly daring to breathe, she removed her gloves. She had to see, had to be sure.
Lightly, she touched her fingertips to Ivanova's forehead.
She was in a room somewhere. She did not know where. It was cold. Not uncomfortably so, but chilly all the same. There was only a young girl here. She was sitting on the floor, playing with an old-fashioned, raggedy doll.
"Where am I?" she asked. An image from Ivanova's childhood, perhaps? The decorations looked Russian, she supposed.
The child stopped playing and looked up. She was about…. ten, perhaps. Maybe a little younger. Lyta had never really had much to do with children.
"Are you here to see Mama?" she asked, deadly serious. "You're one of those bad people, aren't you? One of the…. the telepaths."
Lyta looked down, and was startled to see she was wearing the uniform of a Psi Cop. That was strange. Some sleeping memory, perhaps? She did not bother trying to change it. This was Ivanova's dream after all. Not hers.
"Where's your mother?" she asked.
"She's ill at the moment. She sent me here. She said she'd come for me. She's…. I've been waiting a long time. Have you brought her medicine?"
"What medicine?"
"The bad men bring it for her. It makes her sleepy, and not feel well. They say she has to take it. Is my Mama all right?"
Sleepers. Now Lyta understood. Her mother was a telepath who had refused to join the Corps. That was in the old days, of course. Before Earth fell. Things were…. a little different now.
"Dadya says she'll be fine. Where is she?"
"I…. I don't know."
There was the sound of a door opening behind her, and Lyta turned. The young girl cried out. "No! Don't let them take me. Please…. they're the bad men. They're here for me. Mama said she'd protect me. Don't let them…."
Two Psi Cops came in through the door, but these were different even from the people Lyta had trained with. They were huge, twice her size, and they looked like monsters. One of them smiled, revealing an impossible number of fanged teeth. The other one lifted up a net.
"Mama!" cried the young girl. "Mama! Where are you?"
"She can't help you now," said the first Psi Cop. "You've got to come with us. We're your parents now."
Lyta shook as she returned to her own mind. She was swaying gently. Steadying herself, she looked at Ivanova again. Her sleep was more fitful, but Lyta could clearly see an older version of the young girl.
"Damn you," she whispered to herself. Tears in her eyes, she turned and left the room.
* * *
Study an enemy's weaknesses, and thou shalt know him.
Sonovar had heard those words many times during his training, first from Warleader and Satai Shakiri, and later from Sinoval himself. And he had taken them to heart, remembering them and acting on them.
But he had added another piece of wisdom to his learning, one he had developed after learning of Shakiri's death. Sonovar alone had worked out who was responsible, and he recognised Shakiri's folly in not turning his teachings inwards.
Know your enemy, true, but know your friends as well. They are just as dangerous to you.
Friends, and potential friends.
And so, as Sonovar walked into the room that had been serving as the cell of Shai Alyt Kozorr, he went armed not only with two fighting pikes, but with all the knowledge he had been able to gather about the man. Information, rumours, and a fascinating device created by Forell to pry into Kozorr's dreams.
The warrior leapt to his feet as Sonovar entered, and his grace was startling. Sonovar let his gaze rest on his companion's injuries, particularly his hand. Kozorr was wearing a glove to disguise the damage and to provide some support, but Sonovar knew just how maimed the limb was. He had been there, after all.
"Your weapon," he said, handing Kozorr's pike back to him. And a strange weapon it was, too. It was a shorter version of the traditional denn'bok, adapted so that it could be wielded with only one hand. Sech Durhan's work, no doubt. A better weaponsmith Sonovar had never known.
