"Z'ondar!" Light filled the room as a door was thrown open and a figure stood silhouetted in the doorway. It moved forward with a gait she had never seen before. It raised a weapon that looked very much like a fighting pike.
It hissed out words in a twisted, sibilant language she did not recognise. "Z'ondar," it then said again. The word was Minbari, but one which she did not know. "Z'ondar."
Shaking, she managed to climb to her feet. "Who are you?" she asked softly. "I am Kats, of the worker caste of the Minbari. I…. I mean you no harm."
It began clicking and a strange expression passed over its alien face. "Do you…. revere the Z'ondar?" it asked haltingly, in an erratic worker caste dialect. "Do you remember…. his ways?"
"Who is the Z'ondar?"
It hissed something in its own language and darted forward, raising its weapon. It looked angry, very angry. Kats tried to avoid its attack, but she was too weak. She fell backwards, landing on Ashan's body.
Something beneath her hissed.
The alien's charge suddenly stopped and it dropped its weapon. Black ichor spilling from its eyes, it fell face forward on to the ground, a sharp knife sticking from its back.
"My lady?" asked a voice from the door. "Are you all right? I…. I can't see you."
"Kozorr," she whispered. "I am here." She hoped she sounded stronger than she felt.
"My lady." He moved forward awkwardly, and his shape was soon lost in the darkness. "Talk to me, Kats."
"I am here. I…." She coughed. "What has happened? What is…?" She could hear once again the hissing sound from beneath her. A strange warmth began to rise beneath her neck. Breathing out sharply, she rolled aside, and was stopped by strong hands.
Kozorr helped her rise. "I heard that Ashan had brought you here, my lady. Some of the…. survivors managed to direct me."
"Survivors?" she said, clinging to him tightly. She did not feel capable of standing on her own. "What happened? I…. remember meeting with Callenn and Ashan and then…. something fell on me and I…. I woke up here. He said he was going to kill me."
"He is dead. It was a fine blow. Worthy of a warrior."
"I'm not a warrior, though! I never want to be one. That…. that was the first time I've ever killed anyone."
"You have a strong heart, Kats," he said, his voice almost breaking. "Come…. see what has happened."
He helped her out of the room, and she looked at the utter devastation around her.
She felt like weeping.
* * *
Ta'Lon felt for the presence of his sword, as he would check on the security of an old friend. This whole place felt wrong to him, and he was experiencing a growing fear for the life of the one man he had sworn to follow unto death.
He had been a soldier during the occupation. The sight of the casual torture and murder of his family and mate had driven him into a peculiar form of insanity and he had dedicated his life to the destruction of the Centauri. Disdaining any long-range or high-technology weapons, he had taken the katok his grandfather had forged and sworn to use it as his instrument of vengeance. He had fought for almost the entirety of his adult life with only his sword. It was both weapon and constant companion: his only friend.
When the Centauri had withdrawn he had been bereft of purpose, wandering idly, picking fights, seeking mercenary employment. Some of the tasks he had been commissioned for had been neither ethical nor legal, but he had done them anyway, neither caring nor knowing anything else.
And then he had met Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar. He had been hired to assassinate the prophet by one who preferred to avoid the expense or the rules of the Thenta Ma'Kur. G'Kar had awoken to see the assassin standing over him, sword held ready. He had spoken nine brief words:
"Is this the purpose that sword was made for?"
Ta'Lon had broken down in tears and the two had talked all night. G'Kar's wisdom had awed him, and by dawn he had sworn himself to the prophet's side. He was not the first Ranger, but perhaps he was the first true Narn Ranger.
From that day to this he had always known he would give his life for G'Kar, but now he was accepting the revelation that he might have to do more than just die for the prophet. He might have to live for him.
Satisfied that the sword was still there, he turned to look at his companions. Six Narn Rangers, all men he had chosen and trained personally. He knew he could count on them. There were two humans present as well, neither of whom he was entirely sure of: Garibaldi, who worked for G'Kar's old ally Bester, a man he had been suspicious of from the beginning and still doubted today; and Dr. Kirkish, who had been studying the Machine in detail, again for Bester.
Something was definitely wrong. They should have been met by guards by now. Where were they?
"Be careful," he warned his Narns. He was speaking in his native tongue, one he had always felt proud of. The Centauri had not been able to eradicate it, and joy at its salvation led him to use it wherever possible. "Watch out for the humans. I am not sure I trust them."
"As you say," came the reply. He smiled. Good men.
The Heart of the Machine was before them now, almost. Ta'Lon reached to draw his sword, and then he stopped. Once drawn, it could not be sheathed without shedding blood, and he would not dishonour this place with a weapon unless he had to. He had enough time.
He rounded a corner and entered the hall wherein lay the Heart of the Machine. He stepped forward, and smiled to see his mentor and leader safely within. He stepped further inside and walked up to the Heart itself, stopping some paces from it, and kneeling.
"Forgive me, Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar," he said formally. "We feared for your safety. No one from the station has been able to contact you."
"There is no need to worry," said the voice of his leader. "No need at all. Everything is going fine." Behind her mask of light and mirrors, Donne smiled.
* * *
"I'm…. going."
"Go, then."
"Somebody has to, don't you see that? Somebody has to try to save the world!"
"And it's always got to be you. 'To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.' I don't believe you! We could still try to get away. Some of the colonies are intact. We could…. Oh, why am I bothering? You don't want to get away. You want to stay and fight."
"This is my world too. I have to try to save it. I thought you would understand."
"Oh, I understand. We can't save Earth. The Minbari are too strong. Everyone knows that."
"We're going to build a line. It'll hold. I know it will."
"You're deluding yourself. Go on then. Go and save the world. I won't be here when you get back…. if you get back. I'm sorry, Jeffrey. I love you more than anything, but I won't throw my life away on some…. foolish hope of beating impossible odds. It's over. Goodbye…."
"Catherine, no!"
"You can come with me. I…. want you to…. But you won't, will you?"
"I…. I…. can't."
"Goodbye."
He reached out to touch her hand, remembering once again how she felt, how she smelled, the soft timbre of her voice. It all came flooding back in one savage, brutal moment. "Catherine? It is you."
She smiled. "It's me."
"They took you from me." He bowed his head. Valen, Jeffrey Sinclair…. either, both…. bowed his head. "They took you from me."
She was silent, just watching him. Finally he regained his composure, and the man who would go down in Minbari legends as the greatest orator ever born, slowly, haltingly, breaking down with each minute that passed…. tried to explain the words in his heart to the woman he had once loved above all else.
He did not quite succeed.
* * *
Centauri history contained many long and bloody episodes. From the first skirmish with the Xon to the most recent war with the Narns it seemed that the history of the Centauri Republic had been measured by its conflicts. The legendary History of the Republic by Lord Graves had indeed been based on such a theory.
The majority of those conflicts had been external — with various aliens. Civil wars had also occurred of course — numerous conflicts with Selini, the struggle of the False Minister, the Rebellion of the Fifty-Two Lords, the Fall of the False Prophet Zog. The Centauri nobility had been embroiled in strife almost since recorded history began.
Since the second Emperor and the establishment of the Court however, such instances had been rare. The nobles had learned that a cold war was better, and so the Great Game of intrigue and plotting and innuendo, coupled with the occasional assassination, had developed. No noble had ever actually attacked the estate of another for centuries.
Until now.
The House of Kiro had once been mighty in the politics of the Court, and indeed Emperors had come from that line. They had fallen far in modern times, but their most recent Lord had ambitions to reverse that fall. It was widely expected among political commentators — including those with similar ambitions to Kiro's — that he would not rise as far as he hoped. He was a little too obvious in his plottings, just a bit too brazen and arrogant. Still, in these troubled times anything could happen.
Which was perhaps the reason for the attack on his home by forces loyal to Lord Jarno. He had been assembling quite an army in the last few months. Personal guardsmen, mercenary soldiers, several less than savoury 'businessmen'. Kiro's own guard had been strengthened as well, but he had been away for too long and he had not believed that anyone would dare attack him in his own house.
He was wrong.
"I demand to be released at once! This is an outrage and the Court shall hear of it!"
"The Court will hear nothing," replied the veiled noblewoman, playing with the hilt of her fan coquettishly. "Apart, of course, from what we choose to tell them."
"Lies! You will hang for this."
"No, we won't. You see, my lord, we have evidence that you are planning a coup against the Court. Or rather, we will have evidence…. once you have told us where to find it, or how to fabricate it."
"I'll tell you nothing."
"I will wager that is not the first time you have heard that, Trakis?" There was a brief acknowledgement in reply. "I leave the matter now in your entirely capable hands."
"But I'm a noble of the Court! My family has given rise to Emperors. You can't…."
"Now, Trakis. Please don't hurt his mouth. He does have to speak, remember."
Over an hour later the Lady Mariel walked away from the cellar room holding the fan in front of her face, both to conceal her identity and so that the servants and slaves would not see the hint of nausea in her expression. Trakis had indeed been very good. A former slave, he had leapt at the chance to torture a Centauri noble. After the first few minutes Mariel had begun to doubt her ability to stay there for long, but she had willed herself the strength. That at least was more than her pathetic husband or her equally pathetic lover would have done.
