The door then disappeared. It did not open, it was merely as though it had never been.
He walked in, aware that G'Kar and Londo were only a few steps behind him.
The chamber was vast, impossibly so. As he looked out across it he wondered if it was even bigger than Cathedral. There were a billion tiny lights glinting into the horizon. The perspective of the room seemed so extraordinary, so out of place, as if he could take one step and be at the far end of the room, and yet walk forever to reach something within arm's length.
He made for the altar. It was a stable point, and possibly the centre of the room. Lights seemed to brighten as he walked past them, over them, beneath them. He could hear their soft whispers, individual voices of those dead for millennia, now joined into one form.
The shrine was there now, directly before him. Kozorr's flower was there no longer. He had brought it in offering, as custom and law demanded. The Well of Souls had rejected it, and him, knowing he had come to betray them.
Welcome, Primarch, spoke the booming voice of the Well itself. The voice changed frequently, but now it was strong and authoritarian, an old and wise king who had been a warrior in his youth, now welcoming a young and arrogant princeling to his throne room. Welcome, Preacher. Welcome, Emperor.
Sinoval turned to look at his companions. Both seemed astounded by their surroundings. Mollari appeared to be muttering prayers under his breath. "Great Maker," he breathed. "Where...?" He looked around. "Where is that voice coming from?"
"As well ask where the air or the water or the earth comes from," replied G'Kar.
"The voice comes from the stone beneath our feet," said Sinoval. "And from the air around us. It comes from the bones and the heart and the muscle of Cathedral."
True, Primarch.
There was a sudden shimmering, as one globe seemed to glow brighter and the others faded. A figure appeared before Mollari. It was a Centauri, tall and proud, and dressed in a fashion that seemed, to Sinoval's eyes at least, to be old.
Does this form please you better, Emperor? asked the image of the Centauri.
Londo looked at it in mute horror. "Great Maker," he breathed again.
Do you know who I am?
"I recognise you, yes. I have seen your image in paint and tapestry. You are my however many times great grandfather, the first Emperor Mollari."
In a sense. I am the part of him that lives on eternally, the part that did not slip away beyond the dark wall that is the end of all things.
"I never knew.... I never knew you took him. His death was.... not a matter of public record. He fled, yes? He.... you.... abandoned the homeworld after the revolution, to seek allies elsewhere, and.... never came back."
Death claims all. He was found and saved.
"And you are now.... here? A part of this Well of Souls?"
We were complete long before his death. He is a part of Cathedral, sheltered and protected from storms by the walls around us. He is a part of Cathedral, and thus a part of us.
"I.... Please, take that image away. It does not exactly put me in an optimistic frame of mind." The image faded. Sinoval saw G'Kar look at Mollari. The Centauri was shaking. "It is a good job for you that I am sober," he said hollowly. "If I were drunk, I would have a word or two to say to you, my ancestor."
"Why did you call us here?" asked G'Kar. "What.... do you have to say to us?"
We know the answers to all questions ever asked, save one alone. We see what is to come, as we see what has been. The accumulated wisdom of the galaxy is ours to wield and command.
This was not to be our time. We were to be a remnant, a legacy once all others had passed from this realm to the next. We were to be a reminder of the covenants forged of old. We were to be memory.
But that is not to be. We have returned early. This galaxy is changing. The times of the First Ones are fading, but they will not go easily. You two.... you two are the sole hopes of your peoples. Preacher and Emperor. Be warned, and be ready. Accept what has been shown must come to pass.
Our Primarch has denied his destiny, and it has led him here, to a fate he does not yet understand. Deny yours, and a similar fate will befall you.
And.... we wished to see you. We wished to have memories within us of those who may be the last true leaders of your peoples. There are Centauri here. There are Narn here. But you two.... you may be the last. Now, if your people die, something will live on.
The voice faded. Londo swore. G'Kar whispered a prayer.
Sinoval stood alone.
"My people will not die!" roared Mollari at last. "I will not let them die! Do you hear me?"
The Well of Souls did not respond, although it was a question to which it surely knew the answer.
* * *
"I will defend you, Delenn," Neroon said. "No shadow will touch you while there is breath in my body."
Delenn looked past him to the creature walking towards them. She recognised it as a Drakh. Not one of their warriors, or a magus, but a Drakh all the same. She remembered the carnage they had wrought at Kazomi 7. She saw again the children they had killed, the hopes they had destroyed, the people they had made mad with their Keepers.
She had found it difficult to hate anything or anyone since she had seen what had happened to Earth, but she did hate the Drakh.
Behind it walked two Shadows, their inky-black carapaces seeming to meld and dissolve in the flickering shadows cast by Parlonn's candle.
And yet she could sense that they were uncomfortable here. There was something about this place they disliked. Maybe Ivanova had been right after all. Maybe her mysterious friend was here.
"Come from this place," hissed the Drakh. "This flight is futile."
"Step no closer," said Neroon. "You may come no closer."
"D.... Del...." His throat was tightening as he tried to say her name. She could see his grip on his pike grow loose, until it slid from his nerveless fingers. With a strangled cry he fell to his knees, head bowed. Delenn took an anguished step back.
The Drakh stood over him, studying him closely. It looked back at its masters, and then turned back to Neroon, a faint trace of a smile on its face. It was the most hideous sight Delenn had ever seen.
The Drakh reached down and plunged its hand into Neroon's chest. The warrior stiffened, a terrible cry leaving his mouth. His head was thrown back, his eyes wide and staring. His face was very pale, all the blood draining from it.
"Delenn!" he cried, and then the Drakh withdrew its hand and Neroon fell slumped to the ground. Delenn did not need to go to him to know that he was dead, but she went anyway, cradling his head in her lap and looking into his dead, oh-so-pale eyes.
"No!" cried a voice from behind her. Ivanova. "You promised me I'd be safe, dammit! You promised!" Delenn was not sure who she was speaking to — the Shadows, or her mysterious friend.
"Stuff your promise!" she shouted. Delenn watched in horror as Susan turned and took a lurching step towards the edge of the chasm. She rose from Neroon's body, trying to reach out, but she was too far away.
Susan Ivanova disappeared off the edge of the precipice, vanishing into open space.
Delenn felt the cold, clammy hand of the Drakh touch her arm, and she pulled away, stumbling forward as she scrambled for the edge of the cliff. Her arm was burning, and she could hear the Shadows whispering in her mind.
Something burst in the back of her knee and she fell. Warmth ran down the back of her leg, and she landed awkwardly, striking her head. She tried to rise, but her body would not obey her.
Turning, she saw the Drakh advance on her. It was saying something, but she could not hear the words over the roaring of her blood in her ears.
Darkness took he
r.
* * *
He sat alone in his office, a half-finished cup of coffee in front of him. Proxima's Chief of Security and Spymaster General had found something more interesting than his coffee.
Mr. Welles had once wondered what it would be like to be able to see the future. Then he had remembered the tale of someone who had been able to see the future, but been unable to prevent it or to warn anyone else of it.
He knew how she felt.
He could see it all happening, everything unfolding before him. Clark talking about war with the Alliance. War with the Alliance! What foolishness was that? War with the Minbari, yes. Even against G'Kar. That made some sort of sense, but what reason to attack the Alliance?
What reason but that humanity's allies demanded it? What reason but a wish for suicide?
He was alone, without allies. For three years he had been fumbling, desperately trying to get someone to listen to him, someone to work with him. Nothing had worked. Bester had betrayed him, had betrayed them all, for some little game of his. Bester was rumoured to be dead now. Welles did not believe it. He would always turn up again.
But then, just when everything seemed lost, help could come from the least likely of places.
He put down the piece of paper he had been reading and picked up his coffee, taking a sip. He very quickly spat it out.
He looked back at the paper. It was a warrant for the arrest of one Dexter Smith, last known location Sector 301, on a charge of murder.
* * *
Delenn could hear the voice as she recovered consciousness. Slowly she rose, looking around. This place seemed little different from any other in Z'ha'dum, but she could feel something different. An air.... almost of holiness.
"Where am I?" she asked, not realising she had spoken aloud.
"A very good question," said another voice, an old voice, filled with loss and wisdom and wonder. "Who are you? That is another good question. What do you want? I wonder if anyone up there can answer them. Can you?"
"I know the answers," she replied. "Who are you?"
"Someone welcoming a guest to his home. Welcome, Delenn of Mir. I believe we have a great deal to talk about."
Part 2 : The Opening of an Unexpected Door.
Deep beneath Z'ha'dum Delenn meets the First One, and is presented with the choice the technomages spoke of so long ago. How will she choose - the safety of all that is, against the hope of all that is to come? Meanwhile there are two very different homecomings - for Mr. Morden, and for Captain Sheridan.... and there is a bitter discovery in store for Sinoval.
Chapter 1
"Order and discipline are fine and noble goals. Lofty dreams. Ah, but you cannot have order without chaos, and some of us can see that. So what you need is ordered chaos. Our style of chaos, you might say.
"A war of our direction, and at our will. And by the time it is over, all the races will be ours, whether they know it or not."
Mr. Morden, a private observation.
* * *
Where am I?
My home. This is where you were aiming for, after all.
I don't feel any pain. I remember.... being wounded.
Pain.... is a transitory thing. All things are transitory in their own way, but the pain of the flesh most of all. The pain of the soul, however.... well, that can last a very long time indeed. You know that better than any, Delenn of Mir. Almost as well as I do.
You are the.... friend.... Ivanova spoke of.
I cannot say whether I am anyone's 'friend' or not, but yes, I am the one she spoke of. I have been trying to contact her for some time. I could sense her troubled soul, and I knew she would bring you here. I have been waiting for this meeting, or one like it. Waiting for.... a very long time.
Where is Ivanova? I.... don't see her.
She is sleeping. Without dreams. It has been a long time since she last did that. She will awaken soon enough, but she would not thank either of us for waking her now.
No, I do not think she would. It is strange.... I used to.... well, not hate her, but I knew she was the Enemy. She worked for them of her own free will. She tried to kill me, she tried to kill John. And yet all I can feel for her is pity. Can you explain that?
Indeed I can. You are learning. I might even suspect that was the reason you were sent here, if I did not know better.
Why was I sent here?
Who can say? The Vorlons sent you here to die. You sent yourself here so that another might live. The universe sent you here.... Who is either of us to question the will of the universe? We are both just children born of her, after all. Perhaps you were sent here to meet me.
And who are you?
That question again. I very much doubt anyone can answer that truly, not even you, for all your claims. I could give you any one of countless answers, but if I were to tell you my name is Lorien, and I am very old indeed.... would that satisfy you?
It might. I do not recognise your race, but there is something familiar. You do not look like a Soul Hunter, and yet there is something there....
No, I am not a Soul Hunter, although I do know of their breed. I see that Cathedral has returned to the doings of the younger races, and that the Well of Souls has spoken to mortal beings again.
Are the Soul Hunters themselves not mortal?
After a fashion.
Wait.... are you saying that the Soul Hunters were not meant to be a part of this? This was not their destiny?
What is destiny? You accept the concept as if the future were written out as plain as day, words on a page, engravings on a stone slab. I can see some of the things laid out before me, but not all. No, Delenn of Mir, I was not expecting the Soul Hunters to return to the doings of the younger races for another thousand years at least, but it seems I was wrong. I have heard the Well of Souls speak to young Primarch Sinoval. I have heard my children within the Well.... they are a part of me even now, you know. Primarch Sinoval.... he denies destiny, and he spurns his doom. He makes his own way. I cannot tell if he is walking a hero's path, or a fool's.
Your children...? You are a First One?
To an extent. I am the First One. The first living being spun out of the fabric of the universe, all those years ago. Time seems to have sped up recently. It moved so slowly back then.
You are immortal?
I am. We are all immortal, in our own ways.
What do you mean? Am I.... dead?
No. Your wounds would not have been fatal in any event. At least, not to you. I did what I could to repair them, little mother. A simple matter of the manipulation of energies.
Then what is to happen to me?
That.... is for you to decide. You were warned that you would have to make a choice, were you not?
Yes.... Yes.... the technomages.... they told me....
This is where you must choose.
Choose between what? I don't understand!
Not yet. You must see things first. You must revisit the past, and maybe even a glimpse of the future you think is written in stone.
Stones can be shattered.
Exactly. Come now.... look.... and learn....
* * *
He was not stopped at customs. In fact no one seemed to notice him as he breezed past the usual array of tourists, businessmen, soldiers, refugees and journalists. Why would anyone notice him, after all? He had not been particularly famous or renowned when he was alive. Oh, some small recognition in his chosen field, but it was a small and closed field at best.
And now, after his 'death', people had a tendency not to notice him. That had got him out of a fair number of predicaments, and even a cell or two.
Fortunately for Mr. Morden, people could see him sufficiently well for him to stop a taxi. He smiled at the driver and got inside. He had been away for quite a while, but some things never changed.
"Where to, sir?" asked the driver.
Sir? Morden was impressed, and made a mental note to give a bigger than usual tip. His associates could afford
it, and respect like that deserved to be rewarded. "Sector One-one-one, the Edgars Building."
"Right you are, sir. Had you figured for a business type the instant I saw you, so I did. Just come in from offworld, huh? Been doing some business at Beta Durani, or out in the Vega system, perhaps?"
"A bit further than that, actually."
"Ah, with the aliens, eh? That musta been exciting. We get a few aliens through here. Narns, mostly, although not as many as we used to. Which is all for the good if you ask me. I mean, yeah, we've had some help from aliens in the past, but we shouldn't have to go grovelling to other races for a bit of help now, should we?"
"I guess not," he replied, faintly amused.
"Now that's what I like about these allies of ours. We don't have to grovel. They want to help us, and don't ask a single damned thing in return. They just want to help, they say. Hey, you been offworld a while. You won't have seen their flyby at New Year, will you?"
"No, I'm afraid I didn't."
"Hot damn, you really missed something, sir. That was impressive, seeing all those ships pass by overhead.... it sure was something. My Rosa.... that's the missus, twenty years the ball and chain, eh? Well, my Rosa said they creeped her out, and I sorta get what she meant, but they were still impressive. We've got nothing to fear from them anyway. They're our allies, right?"
"Looks can be deceiving."
"That's right, that's what I was telling her. Yeah, they do look a bit scary I guess, but they're just different from us. Just 'cause they look weird, that don't mean they ain't our friends."
"Exactly."
"So, you gonna be on Proxima long?"
"I'm not really sure. I've got some business to deal with, and then I might be heading out."
"Ah well, while you're here, if you get time you wanna go down to the cinema screens. They got a damned good one at Meadowhall Dome. Yeah, I know, you can get all the films at home with that virtual reality, surround sound rubbish, but you can't beat a good night out at the cinema, popcorn an' all. Anyway, last week, me and Rosa, we went down to see that new film Wandering Star. Damned good, it was. Starred that Barringer fellow. It'd get an Oscar or two, I reckon.... or at least it would, if they were still doing Oscars. A crying shame, that was. I mean, we need some field of achievement, don't we? No matter what you do, you need something to aim for, you need someone to reach out and grab the medal, the statue.... whatever."
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