by Peter David
She sensed-she did not know how, but she did-that the survival of one, and perhaps two, races, depended upon her making a prudent choice. But she had no means of...
And then one vessel broke away from the others and was driving itself straight toward the Minbari cruiser. It was one of the single-man fighters. The cruiser's weapons could easily destroy it; for that matter, even if they did nothing, the explosion of the fighter against the cruiser's hull would likely have little effect.
Still, it showed ...
... it showed spirit.
And the voice of the Vorlon echoed in her head. The truth points to itself.
She had no clear idea why, and wondered if she would ever truly know. But she pointed to the rapidly approaching Starfury and said confidently, "That one."
And in so doing, in that one moment, she changed the outcome of the current war, and affected not only the outcome of a war to be fought years later, but also a war that had occurred a thousand years previously.
A rather impressive feat, that.
A flurry of white beams ripped out from the belly of the cruiser, snaring the Starfury. It halted the ship in its path and then drew it, implacably and steadily, toward the Minbari cruiser. Morann bowed slightly and said, "I will see to the interrogation."
He left Delenn and the rest of the Grey Council to watch the slaughter.
As Sinclair fought to maintain control of his fighter, his onboard computer informed him of his vessel's plight. "Aft stabilizers hit," it said. "Weapons system at zero. Defensive grid at zero. Power plant nearing critical mass. Minbari targeting systems locking on."
The thought of being a helpless target in space, waiting either to blow up from internal stress or to be blown apart by the Minbari, was completely unacceptable to Sinclair. In a way, I think that the debate as to whether it was bravery or foolhardiness is a moot question. In Sinclair's case-and 1 suspect that it may have been true for any number of the last defenders as well-it was simply anger. Anger that overwhelmed fear, or self-preservation. Rage against the dying of the light.
"Not like this," Sinclair said furiously. "Not like this. If I'm going out I'm taking you bastards with me!" He snapped at the computer, "Target main cruiser! Set for full-velocity ram! Afterburners on my mark . . . mark!"
The Starfury blasted forward on its final run.
The Minbari cruiser loomed before him, larger and larger still, and he could not believe the size of it. It just seemed to get bigger and bigger, and he suspected that his full-impact strike would very likely not even be noticed by the occupants of the ship. But the rage overwhelmed him and he blasted forward, hoping only that his ship would hold together long enough to smash into the Minbari ship.
He threw his arms up reflexively in self-protection as he prepared for impact. ..
, . . and suddenly his ship was enveloped in light. Light that blasted out from the underside of the Minbari cruiser. It took control of his Starfury. He grabbed at the controls, trying to take back command, but the ship ignored him. He squinted against the intensity of the white glare, thought he saw something, forms waiting for him, and a quick flash of...
. . . wings . . .
. . . and then they were gone as his Starfury suddenly jolted to a halt. He was having trouble focusing his blurred vision, but a quick survey of the instrumentation told him that his vessel was completely dead. And he was too, he had to be.
Then the cockpit of his vessel was pulled open, and strong hands were pulling him from it He struggled furiously in their grasp, but he had as much success against them as his fellow pilots had had against their ships.
They all looked identical to him. All bald with bone crests, all with utterly implacable expressions. For all the good that his fighting against them did, he might as well have not even bothered. But he continued to struggle, to shout questions, to make demands. No fear, as I have said.
Something was held up to his face and a burst of gas was pumped at him. It filled his nostrils, filled his senses, and he felt the world beginning to unravel around him. Immediately he realized that he had been drugged, but the awareness did nothing to solve his problem.
He was placed upon a gurney and wheeled into the heart of the cruiser. Faces blurred past him as, in his drugged haze, he said, "Why are you . . . doing this . . .?" But no answer was forthcoming. Little surprise there: They didn't understand what he was saying, nor would he have comprehended an answer.
They brought him to an interrogation area. A crossbar was hanging overhead, and it was clear that they were preparing to lash him to it. As they removed him from the gurney in preparation, he noticed-even in his dazed and confused state-a single, gray-clad Minbari standing there, apparently staring at him. It was hard to make out anything beneath the hood.
The Minbari held up something in front of him ... a small triangle. Sinclair didn't know what it was, but assumed it to be some sort of weapon, or an instrument of torture, and he had absolutely no intention of simply standing around and allowing them to use it on him. As they grabbed one of his hands to tie him up, Sinclair suddenly and unexpectedly pulled free. He swung a fist around, knocking the triangle out of the hands of the startled Minbari.
It clattered to the floor and there were shocked gasps from all the Minbari around him. He had no idea what he had done, nor did he care. The rage was still strong within him, still burning brightly, and all he wanted to do at that point was hurt the Minbari and continue to hurt them, in any way and manner that he could manage.
So disoriented and drugged was he that he did not even feel the first blow that landed upon him. The second blow, however, definitely registered, as did the third and fourth. The gray-clad Minbari, clearly infuriated at the offense, clubbed Sinclair several more times while one of the others picked up the triangle that Sinclair had so cavalierly knocked to the floor.
From the reverential manner in which they treated it, it became quickly evident to Sinclair-even in his drug-induced confusion-that this was something incredibly valuable to them. He had no idea what it was or why they considered it vital, and he didn't care. Hurt them hurt them hurt them tumbled through his skull, and curiously it was accompanied by a second thought, namely, Why? Why? Why? What do they want? Who am I?
Apparently deciding that sufficient recriminations had been made for the sin of striking down one of their most sacred relics, they attached him to the crossbar, which then held him helpless. The cold glare of twin lights shone down upon him. The gray-clad Minbari held the triangle up to Sinclair once more. Sinclair's arms and legs strained against the bonds, as he fought against his body's own weakness, but he wasn't able to manage any sort of offensive action other than to spit in the Minbari's general direction. It landed on the floor, and the Minbari paused, looking at it with curiosity. As a sign of disrespect, it was not especially successful, since the Minbari were not familiar with it as such. The Minbari likely considered Sinclair's grand gesture of defiance to be little more than a sort of biological curiosity.
The gray-clad Minbari held up the triangle, uncaring of anything that Sinclair might have to offer by way of further truculence. It glowed ...
And the Minbari gasped. Even Sinclair heard it. He had no idea of the significance of it, but it was clear that something had surprised the Minbari. He could not even begin to guess what it was.
"Why are you . . . doing this?" he asked once more, and then his head slumped forward in exhaustion as the gray-clad Minbari dashed from the room, heading straight for the Council chambers.
Delenn had seen all she could tolerate.
She was moving quickly down a hallway, trying to put as much distance between herself and the Council chamber as possible. She had given no explanation for her abrupt departure. And part of her didn't care that the others would be wondering what the problem was. In fact, she wanted them to know. She wanted them to know the depths of loathing and disgust she felt for what her people, her race, had become.
She stopped for a moment and leaned
against a wall to steady herself, to try to compose herself. That was how Morann found her. She did not realize that, at that moment, he was the more shaken of the two of them.
She knew that Morann had just come from interrogating the prisoner. She wondered if the prisoner was still alive, but then she figured, What difference does that make? If he's not dead yet, he will be soon!
"Report to me if you wish," she said tightly. "But I have seen more death than anyone should ever have to see. I will see no more."
"Delenn," Morann began to say, and it was only because of her own distraught mood that she did not catch the strange intonation in his voice.
"If you wish to conduct the final destruction of Earth, I will not watch, I!"
"Delenn!"
This time the tone brought her up short. She had never heard him like this: a combination of panic and fear and urgency echoed in his voice. She stared at him in confusion. He didn't speak so much as have words tumble out of his mouth. "I . . . we were using the triluminary to probe the Human, and . . ." She waited expectantly, but he seemed unable even to frame his thoughts. It was as if he was faced with something so massive, so incomprehensible, that he could not even wrap his consciousness around it. Shaking his head in exasperation at what he saw as his own ineptitude, he finally said, "You should come and see. I'll get the others. You should all come and see."
Within minutes they had assembled in the interrogation room. Delenn saw the bruised and battered Human hanging there and wondered why in the world he had come to that state. A probe by the triluminary should have been painless. Had Morann simply beaten him up out of a sense of revenge? In Valen's name, how much revenge did Morann need to exact?
But he looked anything but vengeful at this point. He was looking up at the Human with . . .
... awe? Yes ... yes, that was it. Delenn couldn't believe it. Morann was awestruck. By a Human. By a member of the race that had slain Dukhat, that was responsible for Lenonn's death. He looked for all the world as if he were about to genuflect. What could possibly have transpired to bring Morann to such a state? Had a Vorlon appeared, hovering above the Human-was that what had shaken him? No . . . no, his attention seemed entirely focused on the triluminary. And now another member of the Grey Council, Koplan, was coming forward with the relic, as if Morann did not trust himself to administer the probe and needed someone else to verify something for him. But, verify what?
And then she heard whispers coming from Morann. Something about Minbari souls ... about Valen .. . about...
No... no, she couldn't have heard him correctly. Snatches of conversation at best. What he was saying ... the consequences of it, the hideousness of the holy war if that v*ete the case.
The destruction of the most profound aspect of Minbari culture. The implications would be staggering.
The triluminary glowed as soon as it came into psychic contact with the Human. Delenn looked to the results, and her eyes widened in shock. She saw the reactions of the others, saw them literally stagger upon realizing what it was they were seeing. She threw back her hood, as if to do so would change what it was that she was seeing. The Human gazed at her through half-closed eyes, his head swimming, but she took no notice of it.
"The triluminary confirms it. The Human . . . has a Minbari soul," she whispered. "And not just a Minbari soul. The soul. . . of. . . Valen ..."
Oddly, Morann looked ever so slightly relieved. Clearly he had doubted his very senses on this matter and needed independent verification to fully accept what the triluminary was revealing. "I still can't believe it," he said, "but the triluminary is our most holy relic. It cannot be questioned."
Delenn was shaking her head in slow disbelief, still trying to fully comprehend all the ramifications of the revelation.
"Minbari do not kill Minbari. It is our greatest law. Valen must have been reborn into this form to tell us that the Humans are important. . . important to the next phase, the coming Shadow War." Morann's head whipped around upon hearing this. Clearly it had not yet occurred to him. Not only was he trying to deal with the notion that they had slain all those creatures with Minbari souls . . . hundreds of thousands of violations of the Minbari's most sacred credo... but on a more personal basis, the "return" of Valen now lent incredible support to the point that Lenonn had been trying to make two years previously.
Delenn saw him murmuring to himself, "So wrong . . . how could I have ... been so wrong...?" But there was no time to indulge Morann in his fit of despair. Quick action had to be taken. "We cannot destroy them" Delenn said urgently. "In Valen's name, and the one who is Valen's shadow in this life ... we cannot kill them. Tell the ships to stop firing. Tell them, Koplan. Tell them now."
Koplan quickly passed the triluminary to one of the nearby members of the religious caste and bolted from the room.
"What do we . . .?" Morann gestured helplessly toward the battered Human. "What do we do with ... how ..."
And then, to their shock, the Human spoke. "I won't... tell you anything," he said through swollen and bleeding lips. "Nothing ... just... my name ... is Jeffrey Sinclair... captain . . . serial number ... one ... five ..."
"What is he babbling about?" Morann asked in confusion.
Delenn shook her head, only vaguely beginning to comprehend. She walked slowly to the Human, staring up at him. Now he seemed to focus more fully on her face. He continued to recite some sort of meaningless number, and then started to repeat it. "He is . . . telling us minimal information," Delenn said. "It may be some sort of... ritualistic introduction."
There was a bleak humor to it all. "All my life," Morann whispered, "I have wondered what it would be like, to connect in some way to Valen himself. To encounter an incarnation of him. I never dreamt it truly possible, though, and certainly, not like ... like this ..."
Delenn gazed at the Human. "You know, he even... even looks like Valen, in a way. Like the pictures of him. Looks like him around the eyes ... and nose . . "
"Don't be ridiculous, there's no resemblance at all," Morann said, more sharply than he would have liked. She glanced at him and, apologetically, he waved it off. "I am sorry, I . . . there is much for me to understand . .."
"For all of us, Morann, and we need time for the understanding." She looked thoughtfully at the Human a moment more. "He called himself Sinclair." Hearing his own name, the Human looked up, but Delenn did not address her remarks to him. Instead she said briskly, "We must eliminate his memory of these events, Morann. Whatever he may remember, whatever he may have heard, consciously or subconsciously, we must eliminate from his memory."
"And do what with him?" Morann pushed. "Just. . . just release him? Release the soul of Valen to go back and live among the Humans?"
"We will keep watch on him, Morann . . . somehow. After all," she said ruefully, "this is a Human being who has been aboard a Minbari cruiser and lived to tell the tale. A Human who, it will become quickly apparent, somehow is connected with the end of the war. He will be something of a celebrity among his people, I would think. It should not be especially difficult to keep track of him."
"And what of the Humans themselves, Delenn? We have halted our attack. But now what? What do we say?"
She did not hesitate. "We tell them that... we surrender."
There was a burst of protest from the other members of the Grey Council, confused conversation, shouting one against the other, no one even bothering to pull aside their hoods because there was such confusion. Morann, shouting above the others, said, "Surrender!? We are the Minbari! Surrender is a sign of weakness. Surrender to the Humans? We will look weak, uncertain. We have-"
"Have what? A reputation to consider?" Delenn snapped back, and her fury began to mount. "Look at what has happened to us, Morann. All of you, look. Look at what we have done. Broken our most sacred law to a degree not even imaginable. Tormented and tortured the physical carrier of the soul of Valen. Of Valen!" she thundered.
"Lenonn warned us, and we did not believe. Our own conscie
nce warned us, and we did not believe. And now you are concerned with how it will look to the Humans, to the rest of the galaxy, if we surrender? How it will look! In Valen's-" She stopped, pointed to Sinclair. "In his name, think of what you are saying! Think of where your priorities are! We have spiraled into the pit, Morann! We are wallowing in the darkness, the soul of our race blackened and stained, perhaps beyond redemption, and you are concerned about how something will look?"
She shook her head furiously. "It is the only way, Morann. If it injures your warrior's spirit, your warrior's pride . . . well . . . good. It injures mine as well, and I am no less guilty than you of this abomination. Let the galaxy wonder. Let every sentient race debate until the end of time why the Minbari surrendered on the eve of their triumph. Let them call it mercy, let them call it cowardice, let them call it one of the great mysteries of our age. I don't care. And neither should you. Now send out the word to the Earth government, and may Valen have mercy on all our souls, because I do not know if anyone else will."
The warrior caste reluctantly, finally, painfully went along with the surrender order. One of them, Neroon, would never truly forget or forgive until the moment of his death, and another, armed with a Changeling Net and a grudge, would attempt to destroy Sinclair years later. But that is yet another story.
Sinclair did not understand any of what was happening. Everything was blurring together in his confused and drugged mind.
He looked through hazy eyes at the group of excitedly talking Minbari who were near him. At the same time, his mind seized upon the beating he had taken at the hands of one of them. He felt as if they were all assaulting him, all of them coming at him from all sides, reality and fantasy jumbling together.
And he focused on one of them . . . one of them with its hood torn aside. Male or female or maybe some other gender entirely; it was difficult for him to tell.