Deathwalker smiled.
If only…
General William Hague had also had a high image of himself. A lofty, noble image. He served Earth and humanity. He had risen high. His record was impressive. His actions were noble.
He was never certain of where it began. Jealousy of Captain Sheridan, for doing what he could not? Perhaps. Hatred of the Minbari for destroying Earth, for killing his wife and family? Almost certainly. Fear of what the Minbari would do when they came to Proxima 3? Yes. God, yes.
He tried rationalising it to himself. What Ivanova had said had been correct. Lyta Alexander would die anyway without Shadow assistance. She would probably be executed for treason even if the Minbari didn’t destroy Proxima. What harm was there in letting Ivanova take her? What harm?
Hague could justify it to himself as many times as he liked, but the fact remained that he knew in his heart that what he had done was wrong. Very, very wrong. He had betrayed everything he stood for, everything he set himself up to be. He had come here, down to Ivanova’s quarters, not to stop what was happening, but simply to be here. Simply to… to what? Perform penance? To listen as Ivanova killed Lyta?
Instead he was staring at the one he had sent to her death. Slowly, he bowed his head, unable to think. He could see Lyta staring at him. She was still alive, then. Maybe… maybe what he had done hadn’t mattered then. Maybe…
“Where… where is Ambassador… Ivanova?” he asked, slowly.
“Inside,” Lyta replied. She was bruised, and limping, but she was still alive. That was good. That was… good.
“Go!” Hague snapped. “I… Go… Leave here. We’re damned. We’re all damned.”
He brushed past them and entered Ivanova’s quarters. He had a feeling that they would be leaving. He hoped… he just hoped that… that they would be… safe. That… they would…
He looked around slowly. Ivanova was curled up into a foetal position, whimpering and crying out and covered with blood. A man’s body lay just opposite her. It was Marcus Cole, Sheridan’s – and later Ivanova’s – bodyguard. And elsewhere there were… two… things…
Hague dropped to his knees. He wanted to cry, but there was no room for tears, no place for remorse, no time for anguish. There was only one thing to do. Only one thing he could do.
He took out his PPG and placed it inside his mouth.
What was one more body in the foundations of Golgotha?
And elsewhere there was death too. Death stalked the corridors of the Grey Council’s ship. Of the fabled Grey Council, only two lived. Each knew a little piece of what had happened. Sinoval knew of what Deathwalker was planning to do, but not how she was planning to do it. And Kalain had seen the results of what she had done, but not who had done it.
He had seen Hedronn, lying alone in the darkness, surrounded by bodies. He could see his people outside, dying at the hands of the enemy, needing an order to retreat that would never come. He could see the Grey Council reduced to nothing, and his sole thought was one word.
Starkiller.
Kalain had seen the Starkiller’s furious assault over Mars and he had been afraid. His fear had let two members of the Grey Council die before the guns and bombs of the Babylon. He had seen the Starkiller on Epsilon 3, where they had fought hand to hand. Kalain had nearly won – would have won if it had not been for the interference of that damned Narn. He had learned the truth about Sheridan Starkiller – that he was just a man. A man who bled and hurt and died. Kalain’s anger turned inwards, focussed on himself rather than the Starkiller. He made a silent promise to Sinoval, to Valen and to himself that he would kill the Starkiller.
But now he was too late. The Grey Council was broken and only one man could be responsible. The Starkiller. In his haste, in his anger, Kalain had missed every clue, and Deathwalker had let him, not knowing that if he succeeded, then her plans would be under threat as well. But she let him be. Anger was always a useful servant.
And, lo and behold, the Starkiller was not in his cell. Neither was the Zha’valen whore who had let him escape last time. Kalain forgot everything else that he was and became a simple force of nature, a being who existed only to kill the Starkiller.
And, soon enough, he did.
Sheridan was with an acolyte – another traitor to Minbar. Yet another traitor. Did no one believe in Valen, in the Nine, in the One any more?
Kalain killed the acolyte first. A blow to the base of the spine and then a killing strike to the neck.
Sheridan staggered back, obviously trying to flee. He reached instinctively for his dishonourable human weapon, which was of course not there.
Another weapon was. He extended the pike and Kalain’s eyes widened. He recognised the markings. One of Durhan’s nine. An Earther… the Starkiller wielded one of Durhan’s nine blades! Sacrilege left no word for it.
Kalain gave a roar of anger and pain and grief and charged forward… There could be no mercy, and no Narns this time.
“Report?” Corwin ordered. He was discovering a hard lesson. Even the greatest of furies only lasts so long.
“Hull integrity just over thirty percent. Jump engines down. Left broadsides exhausted. Right broadsides not far off. Forward and aft batteries off line.”
“Any word from Ben Zayn, from the Narn ship, from Proxima, from anyone?”
“Negative, sir.”
Corwin sat back. “Well, I don’t suppose anyone gets to live forever, do you?”
“I wouldn’t mind giving it a try,” muttered the lieutenant.
Corwin couldn’t help but look at Alisa. The medical staff were too busy to remove her body, and so he left it where it was. Death was no respecter of dignity. “We all would,” he said softly.
“Hold on,” barked the lieutenant. “There’s a jump gate opening. A lot of jump gates opening.”
Corwin leapt to his feet. “More Minbari?” Even they were preferable to those Shadows.
“No. They’re… Oh, my God.”
“On screen.”
Corwin looked at the sight before him. “What do those ships look like to you, lieutenant?”
“I’m not sure, sir, but if I had to… I’d say they were Vorlon ships.”
“I’d say you were right.”
Chapter 7
Captain John Sheridan knew all about hatred. He had been immersed too deeply in that particular emotion for his own comfort. He remembered the pure hatred he felt after his return, all too late, to Earth after the Minbari were finished. He remembered transferring that hatred to rage as he attacked the Minbari over Mars. He remembered the hatred he felt after his daughter Elizabeth – one of the most shining elements in his life – had been killed during the bombing of Orion. He remembered transferring that hatred to grief and anger, both so profound that he shut out his wife and left her to collapse into her own private abyss.
Captain John Sheridan had lived with hatred for so long. Recognising the hatred in the eyes of Satai Kalain was not difficult.
Sheridan and Kalain had met before, on the dying world of Epsilon 3. They had fought and eventually been pulled apart by the Narn prophet and visionary G’Kar, who had taken control of the ancient mysteries that lay within the planet. G’Kar was not here now, and Sheridan did not have his PPG, just a Minbari fighting pike. A weapon he had little idea how to use.
Sheridan understood little about Minbari culture and myths and the name Durhan was largely unfamiliar to him. He only knew that the weapon had once belonged to Satai Delenn, who had been given it in love by the warrior Neroon. It had been taken from Delenn by the Shadow agent Susan Ivanova who had wielded it for countless years until two different time streams had crossed on board the space station Babylon 4. Delenn had taken it back and given it to Sheridan, exactly as she had been given it by Neroon.