"However, I have been approached by an emissary of the Vorlons. He has been.... in and out of my life these past few years. He offered the Republic an alliance with his associates, but at considerable cost. He disappeared while I was debating the issue.
"The Vorlons have given me precious little reason to hate them, but equally little reason to trust them.
"But then I could say the same of you, Primarch Sinoval."
Sinoval smiled and nodded. "The Centauri reputation for paranoia is not overstated, I see. Very well, I asked you here to show you two things. You have seen the first; it is time you saw the second, I believe.
"Has either of you heard of the Well of Souls?"
One of the finer arts of the street fight is knowing when to fight, and when to stand back. In the section on when definitely not to fight was marked a diagram of exactly the situation Dexter Smith now found himself in. To wit: being surrounded by six heavily-armed men much bigger and stronger than he was. Especially when they were dressed in suits.
With dark glasses.
The only thing missing was the inane chatter about music or films or the relative merits of Choc-A-Mint over Choc-A-Mocha.
Trace and Talia were nowhere in sight. Smith had been literally pulled from the room, and was now being pushed down the corridors to the door they had entered by. They eventually set foot outside to find the doorman he and Talia had slipped past before. He had woken up now and was looking around, confused.
"Mr. Trace is not happy," said one of the men surrounding Smith. "He is very not happy."
"Hey, Roberts," said the sleeping doorman. "What's.... what's the matter? Is there some sort of problem?"
"When Mr. Trace pays people to watch his club, he expects them to watch it, not to fall asleep and let any old passerby wander in."
"Hey! I never fall asleep. I was right here...."
"Look, go and tell it to Mr. Trace." Roberts smiled. "You never know. He might believe you. He might be in a good mood and let you keep a few fingers."
"What?" The doorman looked visibly shaken. "I wasn't asleep."
"You were," observed Smith dryly.
"What?!"
"You were so asleep. And snoring."
"I don't snore! I mean.... not that you'd know, because I wasn't asleep!"
"All we needed was a blanket and a little hot-water-bottle and you'd have been home away from home."
"Less of it," said Roberts, but the doorman evidently hadn't heard him.
"Shut up, you...!"
He moved forward.
Several things happened at once. The doorman made to punch Smith. Smith got out of the way by ducking down, grabbing at the nearest pair of ankles and pushing hard. The doorman hit the guy who had been standing directly behind Smith. Smith rolled across the ground and leapt to his feet. The other 'businessmen' moved into action, but the doorman stumbled into their way.
At that point, normal time reasserted itself.
Normally, Smith's solution would have been that discretion is the better part of valour, and he would have run. Anywhere. Very fast. On the other hand, Talia was around here somewhere and in a lot of trouble, and if there was anything guaranteed to make him stay around and get into a fight, it was the hope of impressing a pretty lady.
He backed off slowly, edging himself into a small alcove, so that only two of them could come at him at once. The first one to try it was the recipient of a very painful kick to the kneecap, and then a punch to the face which took him down. The second one had taken time to draw a knife, and he slashed it across Smith's arm.
There was a burst of pain and he fell back, wincing. A punch crashed into his jaw, and he fell. Rough hands seized his collar and he was thrown forward, away from the alcove, to land painfully at the feet of the 'businessmen' still standing.
A hard foot came down on his back.
"Get him up," snarled Roberts. "And you!" To the doorman. "Get in there and see Mr. Trace, and say goodbye to all your fingers on the way. Idiot!"
Smith was dragged roughly to his feet, and hauled directly before Roberts. A punch landed solidly in his belly. "You're only making it worse."
"Worse?" he spat. "What? You mean I'm going to get dumped in the foundations of a Kwik-E-Mart rather than a block of luxury flats?"
Something seemed to rise in the back of his mind, a signal he could only faintly hear, almost a sound far away on the horizon. He slumped in his captor's hold and closed his eyes.
There was a flurry of motion from behind him, and he burst into as much action as he could. An elbow in the ribs of the person holding him, and another kick out at Roberts. Tearing himself free, he lurched forward, breathing hard.
"Come on!" cried Talia from beside him. Her hand on his arm steadied him, and all he remembered was running frantically, her presence always at his side. It was some minutes before either of them spoke, and when she did, all she said was, "Lost them."
He considered this for a moment. "Oh," he said, wheezing. "Good."
"They're here," whispered Lyta. She could see them all in her mind, hovering outside the Babylon, waiting. How many there were she could not be certain, but this was their home, the ancestral seat of their power. They were strong here.
Then you will be stronger, hissed the voice in her mind. It brought with it a great light, a painful light, a light that seemed to burn through her skull.
Wait, the Vorlon instructed her.
"Captain," said a voice. She wasn't sure whose. It didn't matter. The message was important, not the messenger. "Jump engines are ready."
"Good," said another voice. Lyta turned her head to look at him. The air seemed so thick, or her head was so heavy. It was Captain Sheridan. She could see.... his soul. It was filled with light. No, it was surrounded by light, an aura, a halo.
"We're getting out of here, and if any of them try to stop us, blast our way out."
"There's a lot of them," said another voice. Sheridan's friend. Sheridan's second.
"All we have to do is get into hyperspace. We'll be safe there."
No, they will not. They will not reach the gateway. You know what to do.
And she did. This.... this was why he had insisted on her coming along. They needed her to keep him alive. They had great plans for him. He was their future.
"Captain," she said. Her voice sounded so strange, as if it were coming from a very long way away. "Let me deal.... with...."
The light was burning her more fiercely now. She opened her eyes as wide as she could. She could see them all, the Shadow ships, the living beings within them, their masters on the planet below.
Delenn!
Lyta could see her. She was on Z'ha'dum. She was alive — in danger, but alive. She was with two people.... Lyta could not see them clearly. They were in danger, but they were standing at the entrance to paradise. There was someone there, waiting for them.
"She's...." Her throat clenched. She could not say the words. She looked to the voice in her mind for guidance.
You will obey. Now.
She tried to scream, but it was not a scream. The light burst from her soul, throwing her body forward. She could not feel it. She could feel the Shadow ships recoiling before her assault, recoiling and hissing and screaming. Their screams were hers.
There was a crack from her arm, but she did not feel any pain. All she could feel was the burning, the light.... it was burning her, it was taking her to pieces....
Blood filled her eyes, and she slumped. Her last image before her head struck the floor was of the Shadow ships falling back, and of Captain Sheridan giving the order to take the Babylon into hyperspace.