“It is freely given, Captain. In memory of Gorash Fifteen. How long will your repairs take?”
“About twenty-four hours or so.”
“Ah.” The Narn suddenly looked down. “I am sorry for this, Captain. The order came directly from the Kha’Ri themselves. I disagreed, but I cannot ignore it.”
Every instinct in Sheridan’s body was warning him about something, and then he caught it. Not a smell, not a sound or a sight, but a feeling. A feeling that had never been wrong before. Minbari!
Instantly, he grabbed his PPG and spun round so that his back was to the wall. It was too late. The door of Na’Far’s room burst open and six Minbari poured in, big ones, wearing black and carrying those pikes of theirs. Warrior caste. Sheridan fired instantly, catching the first one square in the chest. The Minbari fell, but the others were fast, so damned fast.
Keffer was nearest to them. He made a brief movement of surprise, but was helpless as a pike smashed across his face, sending him tumbling back against the wall, still and unmoving. Poor Warren. He only ever seemed alive in his beloved Starfury. Sheridan fired again, but this time he inflicted only a flesh wound.
Franklin had tried to draw his own PPG, but his instincts were still those of a doctor, not a warrior, and he was felled with simple blows to the leg and side. Connally had managed to get her weapon out, and she had downed one Minbari.
The ship! The ship comes first! Sheridan activated his link as quickly as he could. “Sheridan to Corwin! Get out of here! Repeat! Get the hell out of here! Corwin, you…” A pike struck his arm, knocking him off balance and causing him to fumble his PPG. He tried lunging forward with a punch, but it barely connected.
Damn Minbari! They were too fast, and too good.
A pike crashed against his skull, and consciousness faded.
* * * * * * *
Elsewhere, out on the Rim, a dead world swarmed with life once more. From a world called only Z’ha’dum, a shuttle rose up and flew into space.
Chapter 2
General William Hague looked out from his office window over the grey slag heaps and dusty skies of Proxima 3, and sighed softly. What sort of place was this for a human to live? Where were the grass, the trees, the soft whistling of birdsong in the morning? Proxima 3 was a wasteland, a strategically valuable and important wasteland to be sure, but a wasteland all the same.
It was also the new home of the human race.
Ever since the Minbari had conquered and then proceeded to destroy Earth, humanity had been forced to flee, anywhere and everywhere. Most of their colonies had already fallen – Orion crushed, Mars torn apart, the Vega system under threat and only saved by letting the Narns take control. Proxima 3 was the last bastion of human strength, the site of the last, best hope for victory over the Minbari. A dry, desolate, foul world.
And who was that last, best hope for victory? Not General Hague himself, certainly not President Marie Crane or Vice President Morgan Clark. No, the last, best hope of the human race was a man who was dead in every way that counted except for the physical. Captain John J. Sheridan. The Starkiller.
And that last, best hope was over thirty hours overdue from a routine scouting mission to Sector 14. He and his Babylon were effectively all that was left of the once mighty Earthforce. If he was lost anywhere, then so was Earthforce, some ten years after Earth itself was lost.
General Hague had not been present at Earth during the last ditch defence that was the Battle of the Line. He had been vainly trying to defend the Orion colonies, only for the Minbari to tear through their defences as if they did not even exist. If Sheridan had not come to the rescue shortly before launching his almost apocalyptic assault on the Minbari fleet in what became known as the Battle of Mars, Hague would have died at Orion.
His communit buzzed and he moved back to the desk. About time, John, he thought. I’m too old for you to give me shocks like this. But the face that appeared in the communit was not Sheridan, but his second, Commander David Corwin.
“What is it?” Hague asked. “Report, Mr. Corwin.”
“Our initial scouting of Sector Fourteen showed that the area was empty, sir. No sign of any Centauri encroachment. But we did run into a Minbari cruiser, probably also on patrol. We destroyed it in a firefight, but the Babylon was seriously damaged. Communications were down and jump engines dangerously unstable. The captain ordered us to put into Vega Seven for repairs. He went down to the surface to meet with Administrator Na’Far, and did not return. I received a message ordering me to take the Babylon away from Vega Seven, and only just in time. There was a Minbari cruiser hidden just behind Vega Seven’s moon. Captain Sheridan and Lieutenants Franklin, Keffer and Connally are unaccounted for. They may be dead, or captured. Fortunately we have managed to complete most of our repairs, with communications systems only recently back on line. I am requesting permission to return to Vega Seven and find the captain, sir, and to launch a rescue attempt if necessary.”
General Hague sat back and rubbed at his eyes. “Permission denied, Commander.”
“But, sir…”
“I said permission denied. The Babylon is too valuable to risk. If Vega Seven has been compromised, all we can do is notify the Narn Government and abandon the area. As for Captain Sheridan… if he is alive, then I am sure he will be able to evade or escape capture and make his way here. He is very resourceful, as you well know. And if he is dead, then I cannot and will not let you risk our only surviving heavy cruiser on a suicide run. We all need the Babylon too much, Commander.”
“General, please!”
“That is an order, Commander! You are to return to Proxima Three immediately for a full debriefing. Is that understood?”
“Yes, General.”
“Good. Hague out.” The viewscreen went blank and Hague buried his head in his hands in despair. What to do when even the last, best hope was gone? First, have a drink, and second, try to find something to tell Sheridan’s wife.
Corwin also sat back from his viewscreen on the bridge of the Babylon. “Like hell!” he spat. “Lieutenant, set course for Vega Seven. We’re going to get the captain back if we have to tear every Minbari in existence apart.”
* * * * * * *
“I am Grey. I stand between the candle and the star. We are Grey. We stand between the darkness and the light. I come to take the place that has been prepared for me.” Delenn drew back the hood of her rough grey robe and stepped into the column of light, completing the circle of the Nine.
“It is good to have you back with us, Delenn,” said Satai Lennann to her right. “You seem to be away from us every chance you can get. I hope it is not our company?”
“No,” she said, smiling softly in reply. “I study the prophecies, Lennann. It is hard and tiring work.”
“I am sure it is,” barked a harsh voice from across the circle. “But we have a commitment to the nine, and to the covenant we formed with Valen. Do not forget that, Delenn. Your first duty is always to the Council, not to your personal quest. We are nine here after all, not eight.”
“I do not forget that, Sinoval,” she replied as the warrior pulled back his own hood. “I merely seek to serve in any way I can.”
“But which do you serve most, Delenn? The Council, or your own interests?”
“Sinoval!” barked Hedronn. “That is enough! Never has a Satai cast aspersions on the actions of another. We must simply trust that Delenn is serving Valen, as are we all. And now we must turn to the matters we were discussing.”
“For too long have the Rangers been leaderless and without order. Branmer’s death means that there is no Entil’zha to stand against the Enemy that is coming. We must choose one, and swiftly, for without an Entil’zha, there can be no Rangers. If we are unable to choose an Entil’zha, then how may we choose a leader once the cycle of mourning for Dukhat is over?”
“Has anyone been able to find Branmer’s choice of replacement?” Lennann asked. “This… Alyt Neroon?”
“Neroon has made his own
decision,” Delenn spoke out, hoping that none of the others could hear the pain in her voice. “He has felt a calling elsewhere. It would not be right of us to question that.”
“Neroon has run away,” Sinoval snorted contemptuously. “Hiding from the war we must fight. It is a great loss. He served Branmer well in the war against both the Earthers and the Enemy, but if he will not serve, then another must.”
“But who?” asked Lennann. “None of the others has the desire, or the training or the talent to lead.”
“The Rangers are warriors,” Sinoval pointed out. “As is only fitting, since who else must fight the war against the Enemy? And who better to lead them than a warrior? I led the Wind Swords well in the war against the Earthers, did I not? Many within my own clan serve as Rangers, do they not? I speak for the warrior caste here, do I not? Satai, I offer myself for the position of Ranger One.”
“This is impossible, Sinoval, as you well know,” Hedronn said. “Your duties as Satai, your duties to the Nine, deny you the time to be Entil’zha also.”
“Delenn finds the time to study the prophecies, and that does not detract from her duties as Satai. Or perhaps it does, in which case she should be dismissed from this assembly.”
“Sinoval! I have warned you before. No aspersions are to be cast upon a member of this Council. Delenn has served us well these last sixteen cycles, and she was the chosen of Dukhat. You have been here far less time than she, and should display the proper respect.”
Hedronn looked at Sinoval angrily, worker and warrior locking gazes across the hall of the council. Delenn looked from one to the other with increasing despair. Sinoval’s ambitions were well known, but a feud between worker caste and warrior caste could tear apart not only the Council but all of Minbar. That one as filled with pride and arrogance as Sinoval should rise so far was a black thing for all Minbari, but Delenn would not let one warrior destroy the Council, not when the argument was fought over her.
“Hedronn! Sinoval! This Council is not a place for arguing and shouting,” she said. “We all serve as best and in what ways we can. If Sinoval believes he can serve best by leading the Rangers, then so be it.”
“You would support me?” Sinoval said, suspicion flaring in his dark eyes.
“No. I support the Rangers, I support the fulfilment of the task that is ahead, and I support the actions we must take to fulfill that task. If you are the best person to lead the Rangers, as you claim, then you should have the position of Ranger One. If you are not, then we must trust that you will acknowledge this, and pass the position on to one better qualified. Without trust in one another, then the Council will surely fall, and Minbar cannot be far behind.”
“The voice of reason as ever,” whispered Lennann, and she smiled at his encouragement.
Sinoval suddenly turned as a young acolyte stepped forward to speak with him. His column of light faded and Delenn was left to stare at the blackness in its place. She did not think she liked this new development. When the light came back on, she knew from the expression of triumph on Sinoval’s face that she would not.
“Fellow Satai,” he said. “I have great news. The human Starkiller Sheridan has been captured by warriors from the Wind Swords clan. He is being brought here in chains, to face our judgment for his crimes.”
Delenn started. Starkiller? She knew of Sheridan, all Minbari did, not only for the Dralaphi, but also for his direct attack upon the very heart of Minbar – the Grey Council itself. Mere weeks following the fall of Earth, as the great Minbari fleet had turned its attention to the other human colony on Mars, Sheridan had launched a foolish assault on this very ship, killing two Satai and allowing many refugees to flee the planet. And therefore, Sheridan had set in motion events to allow Sinoval and Lennann to come to power.
As Delenn looked at Sinoval, she doubted that the warrior intended to thank Sheridan for giving him this position. Oh no, not at all.
* * * * * * *
As night fell over the mining colony of Vega 7, the people therein slept. Marcus Cole, miner, slept the sleep of the drunk, and the angry. His brother Joseph and his wife Katherine slept a frustrated, distant sleep. Administrator Na’Far slept the guilt-ridden sleep of one ashamed. In chains and in cells, Lieutenants Franklin and Connally did not sleep, while Lieutenant Keffer moaned with the pain of his injuries.
Above the colony world, minor and insignificant, there loomed something ancient and dark, issuing a scream that tore open the sky. Any early warning systems were destroyed. It was alone in the night.
Except for something beneath the surface of Vega 7, something recently awakened by mining operations, something else ancient and dark, buried there for a millennium.
It began to stir.
* * * * * * *
“My name is John J. Sheridan. Rank: Captain, Earthforce. My serial number…”
Delenn looked at the human in the centre of the circle with curious eyes. To think that this was the legendary Starkiller. Just a man. Bloodied, marked but unbowed. Standing tall and triumphant, even in his chains. No, this was not just a man. He was the Starkiller, and looking at him, Delenn realised that he probably could kill stars.
“We know who you are, Earther,” Sinoval spat, in Sheridan’s native language. Sheridan turned to face him, and Delenn caught just one glimpse of the sheer hatred burning in his human eyes. It mirrored that in Sinoval’s own.
One warrior to another… Is this what Neroon meant when he spoke of the urge to fight and struggle? To reach for the very stars? Of hatred and fire and respect and honour burning in one heart?
“That is all I am authorised to tell you,” Sheridan replied, saying the words obviously by rote. “I demand to know what has happened to my crew members.”
“They were irrelevant, Starkiller. Merely lackeys. They will be killed and their remains disposed of.”
“You bastard!” Sheridan shouted. “I swear to God you’ll pay for their deaths, you soulless, black-hearted bastard! For everything you did to Earth, to my people, to my daughter! I’ll crush the life from your worthless throat with my own two hands!”
Sinoval chuckled. “I do not think so, Starkiller, and if we are talking of reparations, remember who struck first in this war. Who fired the first shot? Whose blood is on whose hands? There is enough blood on yours to stain an entire generation.”
One warrior to another. They may not be of the same blood, but they are of the same heart. Delenn started. One warrior to another. The same heart. The same soul? The other half of our souls?
Valen, no!
“What is it, Delenn?” Lennann asked, obviously noting her distress.
“My apologies, Lennann. I was merely… distracted. There was such hatred in his voice.” He was looking directly at her now, but she stood firm before the steely hate in his eyes. “Such hatred.”
“He is a primitive barbarian,” Sinoval said. “His language is proof enough of that. I was not aware you spoke it, Delenn.”
“I have learned bits and pieces,” she said hesitantly. Valen’s name, what if what I suspect is true? It is too… too obscene to consider. “I hope that he will be held until we can decide his fate.”
“What is there to decide? He is the Starkiller! The blood of many is on his hands, including two who once stood here. Simply execute him and have done with it.”
“That would be premature,” Delenn said. “He may have information that would be of use to us. We must discover what he knows.” And I must test what I suspect. Valen help me be wrong.
“I agree with Delenn,” Hedronn said. “If, as you keep requesting, Sinoval, we do attack the rest of the Earther civilisation, we will need his knowledge.”
“Very well,” Sinoval acknowledged. “I do not want a mongrel human kept in this place, though. This ship is for us alone. Hold him on the surface.”
“That would be… wise,” Delenn agreed. She looked at Sheridan as he was led out by two acolytes. He flashed her a stare and she met it firmly. His hatred was almo
st tangible. Valen’s name, how could anyone hate so much?
And then a memory, Dukhat lying in her arms, the humans who had done this still nearby. A question posed to her. A question… and an answer. ‘Kill them! Kill them all!’
“And now,” Hedronn was saying. “The position of Entil’zha…”
* * * * * * *
My name is John J. Sheridan. Rank: Captain, Earthforce. My serial number… Yeah, keep saying that, Johnny. Maybe it’ll let you keep your sanity until they decide to kill you.
His first memory after being knocked senseless on Vega 7 was of waking in a small room. Everything smelled Minbari, an infuriating scent, like clove oil and steel. He did not know how long he had been there, but he remembered being taken before the circle of the Nine – the fabled Grey Council, no less – and then from there to here, a cold, dark, small cell somewhere on the surface. He had tried pacing up and down – three paces long, two wide – but when that did little to relieve his boredom, he tried visualising Anna – not as she was now, but as she had been when they had first met, introduced by his sister Elizabeth. When that did not kill the time, he turned to his daughter, also called Elizabeth, and the last time he had seen her, buried under a ton of falling rock as the Minbari bombed Orion 7. He hadn’t even been able to find her body.
Not just his daughter died that day. His wife had as well, at least inside, erecting a wall around everything that she was and ever would be, only breaking through the wall by drink. He supposed that he had died that day as well, and his wall was similar to hers, but his was only ever broken by battle. The last charge at Sector 14 against the Centauri. The suicide run on the Grey Council ship over Mars. The liberation of General Hague from Orion.
In his heart, Captain John J. Sheridan was dead, but then so was humanity, so it made little difference.
He started at the sound of the door opening. There was a brief flash of light as someone stepped inside, and then darkness again. Darkness and a smell. Orange blossom. It was impossible, but it was orange blossom, just like in his father’s garden when he was a child.
The Other Half of my Soul addm-1 Page 2