"Very well. We will find this agent. We will act as swiftly as we can. It is possible the Shadows do not know the full powers and limitations of the network. It is possible the imposition of Code Perfect was their only aim, in which case we must see that it is lifted soon."
"As you say. The Table advocates no action in this. They wish to maintain a low profile after recent events."
"Cowards, but then caution is rarely a serious sin. They can wait, as we can."
Four hours and twenty–eight minutes later, William Edgars stood before Byron as he completed his mission. There was indeed a Shadow agent on the planet, in hiding. Edgars paused for a moment's thought, and then sent a message to Dexter Smith.
There was no particular reason why the nameless man had come to Sector 301, none at all. He had performed the duty he had been given, and now he was free to rest. All he had to do now was avoid capture for as long as possible, to buy as much time as he could.
All had gone as the Dark Masters had promised. Proxima was sealed off, General Sheridan was stuck here, his ships all but paralysed in space. Resources were controlled, restricted. Time.... time was passing. Each second he remained free was another second his enemies did not have to respond.
He knew all he needed of the Dark Masters' counterstrike, their plan for revenge, even possibly for victory. They still wished to win, yes, but if they could not, then revenge would be acceptable - the burning of worlds, the searing of stars. The galaxy would be left barren and dead, a message to the races who had scorned their message.
He was not the only one, he knew that. There were others, amongst the Minbari, on Centauri Prime, Narn.... everywhere. He was not working alone.
Another minute passed. And another. Every minute mattered.
A brief flicker of light illuminated his hiding place. So. They had found him at last. It didn't matter. He had done enough, and there was still the possibility of escape.
He tried to run, each step providing another second. He tried to fight back, and bought precious moments for his Dark Masters. Finally he tried to kill himself, but alas, he failed. He was not unduly troubled. Questioning him would take time.
Time.... with time came change. Change led to chaos, and chaos led to strength.
Time was his greatest weapon, and as they took him away, he found himself marking off the seconds and smiling happily.
"I think we owe you our thanks, Mr. Smith."
"You don't owe me anything, Captain. Or is it General now?"
"General, strictly speaking, but that doesn't matter."
"General, then. Oh, and by the way, if we're being formal, it's Senator–elect Smith."
"Oh? Really? I don't remember hearing...."
"Well, there you are. You learn something new every day."
"I'm sensing a little animosity here."
"And why would that be? Listen, General Sheridan. I spent years living in your shadow, walking in your footprints. I captained your ship, sat in your chair, gave orders to your crew. I would have given anything to be anywhere near as good as you were.
"Not any more. Now, I know what I'm doing. You're the one who doesn't."
"What do you mean?"
"Have a good, long look at what you're doing to Proxima. Ask yourself why Delenn isn't here. And most of all, open your eyes, open your ears and look around you, listen to people. Maybe then, you'll find out.
"I've got an office here, a place I can work from. That's where you can find me.... if you need to.
"But for now, I'm very busy. Good day, General."
Obtaining the prisoner had not been difficult, not for the old man anyway. He had ways and means of achieving most things on Proxima, and arranging a little diversion for a Code Perfect designated prisoner on his way to the maximum security dome at Rykers had been a piece of cake.
Officially, the murderer of General Ryan was there now. Unofficially, he was sedated and semi–conscious in a secret room that few people knew existed, set in a chair before a man who had long ago ceased to remember his own name.
The old man looked around, wishing Mr. Morden were here. He always liked having company while he was down here. There was something unnerving about the way Byron seemed to be looking at him, not with his thoughts, but with his mind. He knew of course that Byron had no control over any part of himself, mind or body - that was not allowed by the network - but that did not ease his discomfort.
Oh, well. Morden had gone some months ago, heading for Centauri Prime. Matters there were reaching fever pitch, and a reliable agent was needed. The old man had received a few reports, and none of them had made pleasant reading. The last one had been some weeks ago, indicating that the Enemy were finally ready to make their move. Nothing since, although word of rioting, widespread insanity and open fighting in the capital had filtered through. None of these reports had come from Morden though, so he paid the rumours no special attention.
"Mr. Byron," he said softly, and the telepath stirred, his eyes flickering open. "Mr. Byron, there is something you need to do for us." The words were unnecessary of course. Byron responded only to the network and to the slightest of thoughts reaching into his soporific mind.
A brilliant golden light blazed within his eyes and a soft rush of air flowed from around him. Behind him the jump gate opened with a blaze of noise and gravity and light. Byron's body snapped taut as he again became one with the combined minds of a billion telepaths on a billion worlds, all working as one to maintain the jump point, and in doing so amplify each other's powers.
"We need his thoughts. We need his memories."
Byron turned his head slightly to look at the Shadow agent. A circle of light fell across the man's face, and he screamed.
"Why?" the old man asked. "Why did he do it? What are they planning?"
"A distraction. A misdirection. The purchase of time." The voice was like no human voice ever heard. It was a multitude of tones in one, a combination of human and alien and machine, music and scream all joined.
"They have shown him. A Fist of Darkness, a dark cloud has been awakened.
"It will turn to a planet and destroy it utterly, tearing it apart from inside, reducing an entire world to a dead husk."
"Which world? Where is it going?" They all knew the Shadows had planet–killing technology, of course. If the Minbari did, then the elder races must have, but it had been hoped they were all lost.
Evidently not.
"Which world?" he asked again. "Where is it going?"
David Corwin paced up and down his room. Something was nagging at him, a sound that seemed to come from just beyond his hearing, like a quiet conversation in the next room. He could pick up the sounds, but not the words.
A distraction, yes, but a distraction from what? What were they doing? Had it been a ploy to lure the fleet away from the shipyards, to sneak in while they were gone and destroy the base? Had it been a simple suicide attack?
What?
A Fist of Darkness.
He started and looked around. He had heard that. He knew he had. But who...? "Carolyn," he whispered. "Carolyn, is that you?"
Which world? Where is it going?
A different voice, a man's. But what the...?
He heard the answer, and his eyes widened. He swore. Now he knew.
He was running before he realised it, barking orders through his link. "Recall all crew, all fighters. Get me Captains Daro and Kulomani. Get together every ship we can. And hurry!"
Oh, God. Oh, merciful God. They could not let this happen. Please, let there be time.