Bethany nodded. "A better world, huh? Is this your idea of a better world?"
"Maybe not.... but I'm going to keep trying to create one. Proxima needs loyal soldiers, it needs people like you."
"I'm tired of this. Besides, I think you mean it. It's strange, but I really do. I'm even too tired to make threats about what will happen if you're lying."
"I'm not."
"I don't think you are. Fine.... it's over. You win. We surrender.
"We're going home."
"I will.... be going then."
There was an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the dark thoughts that echoed in John Sheridan's mind. Accusing thoughts, angry and bitter.... And some of them were directed at the woman in front of him.
"That's.... probably for the best," he said finally, hating himself for the words. It was true. It was for the best. Politically, militarily, personally....
Delenn had to return to Kazomi 7. The Alliance was holding together, just, but the recent tensions with the Narns, the revelation that the Centauri had allied themselves with the Shadows, the expense of the war.... they needed someone there, someone special. Not just a leader, a symbol.
That had to be Delenn. She was the only choice. She was the leader of the Alliance after all, and also the most obvious symbol of the alliance of races. No one else would do. Lethke and Vizhak were merely administrators, G'Kar represented only the Rangers and his own people, Vejar was hardly ever seen these days.... It had to be Delenn.
"You'll be.... safer there," Sheridan continued, the words sounding pathetic and forced even to him. "We're still catching some of the extremists, some of Clark's men.... people who blame you. There's also the possibility of a counterattack, of course."
All true, but none of these were the real reasons he wanted her on Kazomi 7 and not here. The real reasons he couldn't give voice to.... not to her.
He didn't want her near him. He didn't want to have to hold in his furious thoughts whenever he was around her. He didn't want to have to concentrate so hard not to say the words that would destroy her.
You killed my son!
He had tried telling himself a thousand times that was not true, and on some level he knew it. On that level he knew that he himself was to blame. If he hadn't left her on Z'ha'dum.... But if she hadn't gone there....
If, if, if.... so many ifs.... none of which resolved the main issue that his son was dead, and he had to blame someone. He didn't want it to be her, but if she stayed here, sooner or later it would be her.
"Then.... I will be leaving soon," she whispered.
She looked unhappy, not surprisingly. She also looked tired. She had told John what had happened to her on Proxima, the death - murder - of their son, her own death and strange resurrection. She had kept some things quiet, he knew, but he had not pressed her on them. Compared to what she had told him, any secrets she still kept would be inconsequential.
My son is dead.
Fool! Reach out to her! Tell her you love her!
In truth he was unhappy being on Proxima, and he couldn't wait to leave. He was a soldier and a leader of soldiers. He wanted to return to his war, where everything was so much simpler. The Shadows were evil. Everyone fighting them was therefore good.
But here.... here he was not a soldier, but an administrator. Somehow the task of running Proxima had fallen to him, or at least the duties of ensuring Proxima's defence, the location and arrest of the last few Clark loyalists or Shadow agents, the reorganisation of the army, setting up food supplies and renewing trade....
He hated it. He hated all of it. He wanted to be a soldier again, but until elections could be held, until actual parties could be organised.... then if not him, who?
Tell her you love her!
The voice would not be quiet, and he wanted to listen to it. He really did.... but he couldn't.
You killed my son!
Delenn bowed her head, and turned. She began to walk away.
Tell her, you fool.
He clenched his hand into a fist as he watched her walk away.
Tell her!
She left the room. She did not look back.
He was nobody, nothing, a faceless whisper in the night.
He had been nobody; a quiet, still, unnoticed figure who slipped between the cracks of the world, who lived his own private and lonely existence.
He had no name. He was no one. He was everyone.
They had come to him. They had come to him, and he was no longer alone. They had spoken to him, told him of great things. His dreams had been full of wonder; vast ships rising in the skies, a race of Gods fighting to bring forth advancement, the rush of chaos and the rise of the strong.
He had felt them die, and he had felt the burst of energy and light that had filled Proxima. He had nearly died himself. Perhaps he should have died.
But the light had suddenly faded, and he had been healed again. He had survived. He had been chosen. One of the few.
He now walked through this new world with care, in silence, even more so than before. He took pains to be nobody and he lived every day waiting for the night to come, when his Dark Masters would visit dreams upon him, when they would command him, and he would become somebody, somebody greater and nobler and more powerful then anyone could realise.
"What are my orders?" he would ask every time he slept.
"Wait," came the reply. "Wait."
"I'm sick o' waiting."
The figure on the floor whimpered and tried to say something; excuses, reasons, justifications, anything. The man was not listening.
"I don't think I'm being that unreasonable, am I? I know things mighta.... changed here a little, what with Mr. Trace not being around an' all.... but that don't mean we gotta forget the rules of three–o–one, does it?
"You know what the rules are, sure ya do. Pay up nice and easy.... and we'll keep you safe.... make sure no.... accidents happen. You get me, don't you?
"I've been reasonable with you. I've given you plenty of time to get the money together. I even let you skip a month, after that story you gave. I know things are a bit tight right now.... but, well.... we've gotta keep order around here, especially with Mr. Trace gone, and that means obeying the rules. If I let you off, then I've gotta let everyone else off, and then where will we be?"
The man flexed the long metal rod in his hands. There were certainly other implements he could have used, devices much more modern and up–to–date, but Trace had been a traditionalist, and Roberts thought it was only right.
Anyway, he didn't want to kill the man on the floor, just.... let him know who was still in charge around here.
"Remember.... I gave you every chance. You can't say I'm being unreasonable."
"Actually," said a new voice, "I think we can."
A door opened and a newcomer walked in. He was a tall man, projecting an instant force of will. Roberts narrowed his eyes. He knew who this was. Another man came in behind him. Roberts knew who that was too.
"Get outta here, Smith. This ain't none of your business."
"Everything in Sector Three–o–one is my business these days, Roberts. Thanks for showing yourself at last.... we had quite a bit of trouble tracking you down."
"Oh for.... Allan, sort him out for me, will you?"
"I can't do that," said Sector 301's Security Chief firmly.
"Allan.... whatever Mr. Trace was paying you, I'll add ten.... twenty percent. Mr. Trace always said what a good working relationship you two had. I'd like to see that continuing, now that I'm carrying on the business."