"I...." She could not help but look at Neroon. It had been many years since they had parted, and they had not met since. He had come to her one night, and told her about someone he had met. G'Kar, the Narn prophet who had spoken of the need for the Rangers, and of an alliance to fight the Enemy. Neroon had chosen to believe that a Narn could carry the burden better than a Minbari, and so he had left.
He had asked Delenn to go with him, but she had refused, knowing that she had her duties on the Grey Council.
Two years ago she had received a message from Neroon's friend Ta'Lon, telling her that he had died, trapped by the Shadows and surely killed.
"You have changed, beloved," he said. Her hands went instinctively to her hair. The last time he had seen her, she had been fully Minbari. He smiled, in the same way he had done before, when they had both been much younger. "I like it."
"Milk?" asked Sheridan. "Sugar? No, I guess not. So.... why have you come?"
"You invited me."
"So I did. And you turned me down. As I recall, you also exiled me from Kazomi Seven and threatened to go to war with my allies. You have gone to war with my allies."
"Your allies attacked ships loyal to the Alliance."
He shrugged. "We offered you peace. We offered you neutrality. We offered you treaties, and trade, and a beneficial relationship. We offered to make you strong. You turned us down and preferred to ally with our enemies, who have promised you none of those things. You have, after all, taken on a Vorlon Ambassador to your.... little Alliance, have you not?"
"We have."
"Ah." He shook his head sadly. "You poor fools. You really have no idea."
"Rather them than you."
"You think?" he chuckled, as if that was a genuinely funny remark. "Well, I guess you do. The perils of a Minbari religious caste upbringing. They get to you early. The warrior caste are far more.... flexible. Apart from Sinoval, of course, but even he.... He serves our aims in a way, although he probably doesn't realise it. But the rest of the warrior caste — Sonovar, Kalain.... all of them. Easy to manipulate." He smiled sadly. "I take some small satisfaction from that."
Delenn looked at Neroon. He said nothing. He was still looking at her.
"So," continued Sheridan. "Why did you come here?"
"To hear the wisdom you promised me at Kazomi Seven."
"I heard it said that Minbari do not lie. More propaganda, all part of that aura of superiority again. You know, Delenn, I have met and worked with countless races during my career. Brakiri, Drazi, Narn, Centauri, Sh'lassan, Abbai.... oh.... so many more. All those different cultures, festivals, histories. I put up with Narn scheming, Centauri decadence, Drazi tempers....
"And in all that time, the Minbari are the only people I have ever really disliked.
"One last time, why did you come here?"
"To kill you all," whispered another voice. Delenn looked down to see Ivanova rising to her feet. "She's come to kill you all.... and she'll manage it as well." Ivanova chuckled slightly. "We're all going to die."
Sheridan sipped at his tea. "Yes," he said. "Everything does. Sooner or later. I'll show you to your quarters, Delenn. I have no doubt someone will be coming up to meet with you soon."
In recent years Dexter Smith had been involved in quite a lot of combat. That, of course, had been ship-to-ship, large-scale battles, or perhaps the more personal fighting that occurred when one ship or the other was being boarded.
It had been a long time since his last no-holds-barred, bar-room brawl or fight for his life. But there had been a time, before he had joined Earthforce, when there had been no one able to take him on. Not because he was stronger, or faster, or better armed.... but because in Sector 301, he fought meaner and dirtier than anyone else around.
Swivelling on the floor, he lashed out with his foot, catching Drake's knee and knocking it aside. Drake staggered, but managed to remain on his feet, and Smith cursed his lack of practice. In the old days he'd been able to break a man's knee with that manoeuvre, and that would pretty much end any fight.
As it was, he had time to get to his feet and shake the cobwebs from his head. His blood was roaring now, but his thoughts were icy calm. It was as though his soul had entered a tranquil void, where what happened to his body did not affect it.
Drake moved forward, more cautiously this time. He was good at this. He did not just want to beat Smith but to kill him, and he was more than capable of keeping his anger in check if it meant he could manage that.
He slashed out in an exploratory motion, and Smith dodged back. Testing his reach, Drake attacked again, and once more Smith avoided the blow. There was a table here, just behind him. He could feel it as he moved back. Another two steps.... that was all.
His opponent could clearly see it as well, and charged. Smith sidestepped, but Drake had been expecting that, and swivelled on the balls of his feet, slashing out with the knife. It tore through Smith's shirt, and there was a sharp pain across his ribs.
In his void Smith did not feel the pain, but he knew it was there. He dropped down a little and let Drake rise above him. Swiftly striking out, he rained two quick punches on Drake's side, and heard his attacker grunt. He rolled aside and leapt to his feet.
Drake followed up on him at considerable speed, surprising given his size. Smith grabbed behind him, and felt a chair there. In one swift motion he spun it around, and felt it connect with Drake's arm.
Drake fell back, still silent. He was not swearing or blustering. He was perfectly calm and cold and silent. He stepped back slowly, shifting his weight, ready for Smith to make the next move. Smith dropped the chair and began to consider his options. In the void time seemed to move differently. He became aware of the flurry of emotions in Drake's mind, kept at bay by an iron wall of discipline and self-denial.
Acting on what almost seemed like instinct, Smith tweaked the mass of anger and hatred and fear slightly, and the wall fell apart.
Roaring insanely, Drake charged forward, brandishing the dagger high in the air. Smith easily sidestepped the attack, spun around, and delivered a hard kick to the back of his opponent's knee. Drake went down, stumbling, but managed to roll aside from the stamp that was aimed at the small of his back.
Smith came down hard on Drake's wrist, and with a cry the knife slipped from his fingers. Just as the prone man tried to rise, Smith brought his foot down on his neck.
"Did Trace order this?" he asked, his void of tranquillity shattering. "Or was it a personal thing?"
Drake chuckled. "You're a dead man," he hissed. "A very very dead man. Mr. Trace owns this sector, and anyone who tries fighting him.... well, that depends on his mood. Sometimes they get one chance. Sometimes they don't. Guess which group you're in."
"I'm still alive, aren't I? You failed to get rid of me. I don't think Mr. Trace will be all that happy about that."
"I haven't failed yet."
Drake suddenly grabbed Smith's foot and pushed him backwards. Smith staggered, and watched Drake lunge for the discarded dagger. With his left hand Drake began to grip the hilt carefully. Smith darted forward and brought his foot down hard at the top of Drake's spine.
There was a sickening sound, and he knew what had happened almost instantly. He could somehow.... feel the life leaching from Drake's body.
Turning the man over, his suspicions were confirmed. The blade of the knife was stuck deep into his neck.
Smith turned to look at Bo, still shaking behind the bar. "G.... get out of here," Bo breathed. "Get out of the sector. Security will be after you."