"Dexter. Um…. what lager do you do? I don't see anything I recognise, but then it has been a while."
"Ah, we do the Pit Bull. A local drink, brewed not far away."
"Really? A bottle of that, then."
"Right you are. Where are you from, then? You don't look like you belong in three-o-one, no offence meant."
Smith took the bottle and sipped it slowly. As Bo had said, you couldn't be too careful, least of all with strange drinks. To his surprise, it wasn't too bad. "Ah, I've been away for the last couple of years. Business of a sort. I recently…. left my old job and decided to come back here."
"You came to three-o-one? That's a pretty unusual choice. Not that I mind, mind." He chuckled mirthlessly. "You know, you look a little familiar. Have I seen you before somewhere? Ah, probably have. Be forgetting my own head next."
"I used to live here, in three-o-one. When I was a child. Tell me, is the Emperor Bibulos still open? It used to be around here somewhere. A Centauri theme pub. The landlord was a really old guy, grey hair."
"The Emperor? You have been away a long while. It was torn down in the Pit Riots of…. of…. ah when was it? The year after Orion fell, the same year my cat died…. Ah, well. You know when it was. The folks here were a little…. unhappy that winter, and a lot of blame went on the aliens. The Emperor was a natural target, I guess, so they tore the place down, pretty much. Security restored order, in the end. They waited a bit, but then we're lucky they got here at all, is my way of looking at it. Fair few people up top like who didn't really care about us here in three-o-one."
Smith fell silent, looking at his drink. He'd never known that. Even when he heard about the Pit Riots, it had never sunk in. He had been serving on the Preacher for a couple of years by that point, before the ship was destroyed at Orion. He'd been stuck in limbo afterwards, like so many Earthforce personnel. He had spent that winter in the barracks at Dome Seven, and news of the Pit Riots had gone straight past him. None of it had connected at all.
"I used to go in there when I was a child," he said. "For the warmth and the company, and to listen to the customers. They told the silliest stories…. I liked all the Centauri decor as well. At the time I thought it was like visiting another world." He shook his head. "Nothing lasts forever."
"Just what I say," added Bo. "You can't take it with you, so why not make the best of it while you can?" There was the sound of the door opening. Smith didn't notice it; he was still staring into his drink, lost in a world twenty years gone. Bo certainly did, though.
"Nelson, my friend. A pleasure to see you again. Your usual, is it? On the house, of course." Bo disappeared behind the bar.
Smith felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder and turned round. A man was there, tall and well-dressed. Next to Smith himself he was probably the best-dressed person in the whole sector. It was a fairly old-fashioned suit, but it was clearly chosen to accentuate his sense of menace. He didn't need it. He looked quite menacing enough as it was.
"A new customer," he said jovially. "How about that, Bo? Your advertising must have worked. Where did you come from, stranger?"
"Here and there," came the reply. Smith found he really did not like this person.
"A comedian. We could do with some entertainment in here. The most we normally get is throwing small change at Jinxo over here and watching him scramble around trying to pick it up. Bo, are you fermenting that drink yourself?"
"Coming right up, Mr. Nelson sir," came the reply from the back of the bar.
Nelson chuckled. "That's our Bo, all right. A decent enough sort, but he ain't exactly the fastest barman this side of the Proxima Hilton. Now, stranger, your name, if you don't mind?"
"Dexter. And you are?"
Another laugh. "Very funny. You mean you don't know me?" Smith shook his head. "I'm Nelson Drake. I work for Mr. Trace. You'll have heard of him, of course."
"I can't say I have."
Nelson reached out and grabbed the lapel of Smith's shirt, pulling him up from the chair. "Listen to me, you worthless lump of garbage," he hissed. "Trace owns this sector, and if you want to live a long and happy life here, you'll remember that. Cross me or Mr. Trace, and your life will be anything but long and happy." He pushed Smith back into his chair and smoothed his shirt.
"That's free advice I'm giving you. Think of it as an introductory offer." Bo slowly raised his head from behind the bar, and handed over a small glass containing a drink that seemed to be glowing. Nelson took it from him, never lifting his eyes from Smith, and drained it in one go. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he handed the empty glass back to Bo.
"You know," Nelson said, "I'm sure I've seen you before. Any idea why that could be, smart man?"
"Couldn't say."
"No, I guess you couldn't. Well, I'd better be off. Places to go, people to see, you know how it is." He shifted his gaze to the barman. "See you tonight, Bo. Me and Mr. Trace and the others are looking forward to your hospitality, same as always."
He turned and left the pub.
Smith waited until he was gone, and then looked back at Bo. There were times when he just got strange hunches, mysterious ideas he couldn't explain properly. He had one of them now. "Who was that?" he asked.
"Oh…. that's Nelson Drake. He's a…. bodyguard of some sort for Mr. Trace."
"And this Trace is…?"
"A good man. Oh yes, a really fine man. He really cares for us here in three-o-one. He looks after us, makes sure no one's causing any trouble…. you…. you know how it is."
"Protection rackets." Smith sighed. "Why don't Security do anything?"
"Security? Hah…. They don't care about us here. Mr. Trace…. he…. he cares. He looks out for us."
"Based on what I've just seen, I don't think I'd want to be looked after by people like him. I think it's time to take a trip to see someone. Which way is it to the local Security Headquarters?"
* * *
The Shadow ship stopped dead in space, paralysed and helpless, held there as if by a giant hand from heaven.
"Now!" roared Corwin. "Hit it!"
Forward cannons blazed into life and rammed into the body of the vessel. It trembled slightly.
The other two ships bore down on the Babylon, seeking to free their companion. A Drazi Sunhawk darted forward, striking at the nearest of the ships. The Sunhawk's blows slid off the black, living surface, but the ship turned, momentarily distracted.
Brakiri ships moved forward, the telepaths on board straining to hold back the Shadows. The remaining ship bearing down on the Babylon stopped, struggling to move forward. The other ship turned and fired, and the Brakiri ship died in a silent explosion.
The forward cannons on the Babylon stopped their assault on the trapped vessel. It collapsed and disintegrated before their eyes, dead.
The Babylon turned and moved to protect its allies.
* * *
Valen had walked into darkness many times. Kozorr knew most of the tales about Valen, but the one he kept thinking of was the descent into the pit at Z'ha'dum, to rescue Derannimer and confront the traitor, Parlonn.
Had he known fear as he walked alone into the darkness? He must have done. Above him there was fire and bloodshed, as the Vorlons and the Minbari fleet led by Marrain attacked the Shadows' homeworld. It had been one of the last battles of the Shadow War.
Kozorr didn't like to think about how it had ended. Derannimer had been saved, Parlonn defeated, but the cost…. had been so high.
He had not spent much time in Cathedral. The place…. unnerved him in some way. He had been content to lead from the Valentha, or from the other capital ships. Cathedral had always seemed a dark place, more like a stronghold of the Enemy than a focus of leadership for the Minbari. Sinoval was happy there, but then he had been bewitched by the Shagh Toth.
Kozorr had not actually seen many of them in his journey down into the bowels of Cathedral. Those he had seen had been further up, in the towers and turrets and vast, measureless halls. He supposed the engines must be down here somewhere, but something else would be here as well.
The corridor was getting smaller and narrower. He was having to duck to get through it, but he was certain this was the way. There were lights embedded in the walls, so he could see. Small globes. He thought he could hear soft whispers of conversation from them.
Finally the corridor ended at a door. It was vast, much larger than the corridor had been. Puzzled, he turned round, and saw an impossibly wide and tall hall stretching back into darkness. He had just come down there…. it had not been so huge before.
Who comes? asked a voice from nowhere. Who seeks answers in the Well of Souls?
The Well of Souls. This was the right place then. According to Sonovar's alien allies, Valen had once come here, a thousand years ago. That story had not been known to Kozorr, or indeed to any Minbari. The Tak'cha claimed to have been there however.
They had also told him what to say to gain admittance.
"I am one who comes in the memory of Valen's bargain, and in acceptance of his sacrifice."
There was a moment's silence, and then in an instant every light around him went out, leaving him in utter darkness. He did not show any surprise or fear, although he felt both. He was a Minbari warrior, after all. Valen had come to his place and gained entry. He would do no less.
You may enter, Child of Valen, Child of Twilight, Child of Fire. Enter, but leave behind that which is required, in acceptance of his sacrifice.
He knew what that meant. In all honesty he had no intention of leaving anything behind, but the gift that was necessary had been brought with him, just in case. The Tak'cha had advised him that forgetting it would not be a good idea.
The door did not open. There did not seem to be any hinges, or any mechanism for opening. It was simply that one minute it was there, and the next minute it wasn't. Breathing deeply, Kozorr crossed the threshold and stepped into the Well of Souls.
All the breath left his body at his first sight of that ancient place. He could not feel anything, smell anything, hear anything. It was as if all his normal senses had shut down, and new ones had sprung up in their place.
There was one thing he did know, one thing he had learned from the Tak'cha. This was a place where the dead did not rest. It was a place where they lived.
It was a vast chamber, impossibly vast, larger than the Temple of Varenni which housed the Starfire Wheel, larger even it seemed than the library at Yedor, or the Temple of Remembrance at Tuzanor.
It seemed to be made out of stone, but a type he had never seen before. Dotted everywhere in the walls were tiny specks of light. There were millions of them. Each one, he knew, was a captured soul. He also knew that they were speaking somehow, although not by words or sounds or telepathy…. but by…. something else.
