She gently leaned over and kissed him softly on the lips. Then she turned and left.
* * *
He was surprised by just how much had been done since he had last been here. Kozorr had last seen the buildings and offices of Tarolin 2 in ruins, devastated by the Tak'cha's retribution on those who had betrayed the Minbari people. The streets had been filled with the wounded and dying, and as he had moved through them he had heard the cries of the lost and the moans of the forsaken.
Now it was almost as though the attack had never happened. Oh, there were traces here and there, but for the most part the damage had been repaired. The attack had been very localised of course, and after the initial assault the Tak'cha had gone on the ground to hunt and kill the survivors.
But still, he knew to whom Tarolin 2 owed this miraculous repair. He found her seated at a desk in a nondescript office in the building the new Government had taken over. She was alone, staring at a computer screen.
He stood silently in the doorway, looking at her. She was hard at work, but she looked…. drained. He knew from experience that she had a habit of working on beyond her endurance. Anger flared. Why had Sinoval not recognised this, and done something about it? He calmed himself. He would not be angry around her. He could not be angry around her.
He stood there, watching, for a long time. He did not know how long. Time did not seem to matter. It was only when she stirred and turned to look at the doorway that he returned to his senses.
Her mouth opened wide in mute shock. Her eyes looked…. tired.
"My lady," he whispered softly, his voice choked. He had seen and done many things, and he had been afraid before. He had known great fear, but never so much as in that moment when his lady Kats looked at him.
"You were…. He said you…."
"I am here," he said, walking over to her. His limp seemed not to bother him. She rose from her seat and almost fell against him. He caught her easily and held her there. He did not ever want to let her go.
"He said that you were dead," she whispered. "He told me you were dead."
"He lied. I was never dead…. just a prisoner, and every day I thought about you."
She said nothing for a long time afterwards, but he could hear the sound of her sobs. He was crying himself, but he had no need to say anything. Just to be there, with her, was enough.
For the moment.
* * *
They were there, black against the blackness of space, screaming in her mind. They would kill, brutally slaughter the innocent with no mercy, no compassion. They had to be stopped.
Delenn sat in silence on the bridge of the Babylon, looking around at her companions: Commander David Corwin, John's closest friend. He was breathing in and out slowly, his hands clenched into fists. Lyta Alexander, her eyes shrouded in darkness. She seemed to be listening to something that wasn't there.
There were other ships here as well. Drazi, Brakiri, a few Narn. They were ready to make a stand against the Darkness, to take the war to the enemy.
Corwin received a message, and sighed. "They're here," he said.
"Then let's go."
The jump points from hyperspace opened, and the fleets poured out. The Shadows were waiting for them.
It was almost ironic. She had been preparing for this moment for over thirteen years. During all that time she had imagined their darkness, their terror, their…. evil. Too many of her friends had given their lives in this cause: Lenonn, Draal, Neroon, Marcus….
And now that she was finally taking the war to the enemy, Delenn of Mir had never felt less ready for anything in her life.
Part of that had to do with the circumstances of this battle, which were less than ideal. The Drazi Government had been furious about the orders to hold and prepare and wait. They simply did not have the resources to defeat the Shadows themselves, but they had persisted in trying, and that only resulted in more deaths.
So the Alliance had had to force a showdown, to win some sort of victory, however small, just to prove it could be done. That meant utilising the greatest weapons they had; the Babylon, a ship modified by Shadow technology, and Lyta Alexander, the strongest telepath available.
Delenn had also insisted on coming herself. She was going to send people out to die for her after all. She needed to see it.
There were three Shadow ships. All three turned when the jump points opened. Delenn drew in a deep breath and waited for the battle to begin.
* * *
On another ship, a long way away, another person was sitting on the bridge, deep in thought. He had been preparing himself for this war for a long time, longer even than Delenn. Ever since he had been a young child he had dreamed of this moment. His war was nearly at an end, and then he could rest.
Warleader G'Sten of the Narn flagship Pride of the Kha'Ri looked around at the rest of his bridge crew. They all looked so young. They were probably older than he had been when he had begun this war against the Centauri.
They were nearly there. Centauri Prime, the dream he had been chasing for so long. He might have succeeded during the last war, but the attack on Gorash had been too bloody and had taken too much out of the fleet. G'Sten had never been more disappointed than when he had surveyed his fleet and realised they were not strong enough to go for the homeworld. He had turned his back and left, not wanting to see the planet and be unable to grasp it.
This time, this war, he was ready. Victory had followed victory, and he could total the number of worlds taken from the Centauri. It was a most pleasing figure. Gorash 7, Ragesh 3, Frallus 9…. And now Centauri Prime itself.
He was an old man now, and he could retire after this. He would have done his part for the future of his race. They would remember him, maybe even build a statue to him in G'Khamazad. He would like that.
"There's a message for you, Warleader," said his aide, and he looked up. "It's from the Kha'Ri."
"Come to congratulate us, eh?" he asked, smiling — but it was a false smile and false good humour. He had been delayed enough already in the course of this war. Without the unnecessary hesitations and hold-ups he could have taken Centauri Prime months ago. He would not let them deny him this chance again. He knew full well he would not get another one.
"Put them through," he continued. "Here."
"Warleader…. wouldn't you rather…. take it in private?" G'Sten frowned. The aide was new, brought in to replace his former assistant, G'Lorn. He had requested a chance to captain his own ship, and G'Sten had had to agree. He could not deny G'Lorn this chance for glory, a chance that would never come again.
"Anything they wish to say to me, they may say to my soldiers," he replied. The aide nodded, and began patching through the signal. G'Lorn would have known better than to ask that question. He had understood his Warleader well.
"Maybe I'm getting old," he muttered irritably to himself. There was no 'maybe' about it. He was old. He remembered when he had been in the Resistance, with old M'Sela. He had taunted the old man about going off to bed and leaving war to the younger men. He was now six years older than M'Sela had been when he had died, fighting six Imperial Guards at Na'Mirammar. Five of them had gone into death with him.
The viewscreen came on to reveal the face of H'Klo, one of the rising stars in the Kha'Ri. He was young, arrogant, and had actually served in the army, acting with distinction in the previous war. H'Klo had been decorated after Shi, he seemed to remember.
"What is your status, Warleader?" he asked.
"We will be at Centauri Prime by just after midday tomorrow," he replied. "Our probes are picking up details of their defences as we speak."
"Can you defeat them?"
"Yes," he replied simply. "It will in all likelihood be harder than we had anticipated. I think all available ships have been pulled from other postings to defend their homeworld. We outnumber them, though. I have confidence we will triumph."
"The people are expecting an easy victory," H'Klo warned.
"Then the people are fools!" G'Sten snapped back. "It would have been an easy victory six months ago. But I believe there has been a change in leadership among the Centauri. The positioning of their defences indicates that Marrago has regained influence and power. He is there."
"You are sure?"
"We have fought each other for over ten years, Councillor. I am sure."
"How does that change things?"
"Marrago has a habit of skilful escapes. This time however he has nowhere to escape to. I will defeat him."
"I have every confidence in you, Warleader. And…. for what it is worth, had I been able to, I would have ensured you were able to attack Centauri Prime six months ago. I assure you, Warleader, such bureaucratic delays will not happen again."
"I am glad to hear that," he replied. "But I assure you, Councillor. The war will end tomorrow."
"The entire people of Narn have faith in you, Warleader. H'Mari be with you."
G'Sten nodded, smiling slightly at H'Klo's choice of prophet. H'Mari had been a warrior in his day, several hundred years before G'Quan. Many soldiers had once adopted his worship, but it had fallen out of favour with the Occupation. It was good to see a resurgence in belief.
Or perhaps it was a bad omen.
Either way it spoke of the future, and the future he had always wanted for his people was but a day away.
* * *
There was something about a pub. Something warm and comforting, a place where someone could walk inside, leave behind all the cares and problems of life, and sit and be at peace, in company or not as the mood took them.
Whoever had written that particular homage had obviously never been inside the Pit Trap, but Dexter Smith, having examined all the other pubs in the area, had decided that it was the best place he had found. For one thing, the door wasn't boarded up and there were no 'Condemned' notices fixed to the wall, which was always a good sign.
He walked inside and was immediately struck by just how dark it was. Empty, too. There were only three other customers there and they were all seated alone. One of them was reading a newspaper from several months ago, while another was huddled shivering next to the heater.
The barman looked up, obviously surprised. "Uh…. my taxes are all paid up," he said. "And I'm a personal friend of Mr. Trace and Mr. Allan, so if you're after any…. trouble, then…."
Smith paused. "Is that the regional variant of 'We don't like strangers round 'ese parts'? I'm just here for a drink."
The barman sighed with relief. "Ah, well then. You're very welcome, sir. I was just…. er…. You can't be too careful in these troubled times."
"Troubled times?" he said, approaching the bar and taking a seat. "I thought things were going well."
"Oh, maybe for those that live up in the better sectors, maybe, but not much changes down here in three-o-one. So, what can I get you, stranger? Oh, where are my manners? Name's Bo."
