The Other Half of my Soul addm-1

by Gareth D. Williams

  Jha’dur extended her own pike, the one Shakiri had given her when the Wind Swords had given her secrets to the Star Riders. It was a fine weapon, and thoroughly wasted in the hands of such a creature. Of course, it had been wasted in the hands of Shakiri as well.

  Jha’dur sprang forward, but Sinoval blocked and parried her strikes. She was quite skilled, but he was better. He sent her falling backwards again.

  “What a pitiful thing you are,” he spat. “A foul, malignant creature. Almost a tumour. Your race is gone, Jha’dur. Your time in this galaxy is at an end. I would have been content to let you live, but now… now you will die, and for what? Well, Jha’dur? For what?”

  She smiled, and lunged forward again. Sinoval parried her whirlwind of blows and waited for the one chink in her defences. Finding it, he lashed out at her arm and knocked the pike from her grip. It fell, and then he kicked her, sending her falling backwards, prone at his feet.

  Sinoval placed the end of the pike at her throat and knelt down over her. “Was it worth it? All those dreams of immortality – only to end here?”

  She smiled.

  It was just a small prick, hardly noticeable, except for her smile.

  Sinoval felt his limbs grow leaden. He fell back, tumbling to the ground. His pike fell, none of his muscles strong enough to let him hold it. His head struck the floor and jarred. He could not move, not even a little.

  “Yes, Sinoval,” she said, rising to her feet and retrieving her weapon. “It was. You’ve just been touched by one of my very special concoctions. A paralysing agent. Not fatal, unlike the one I used on poor Rathenn. This one will only keep you here for a while, out of the way and quiet while I proceed to destroy everything you hold dear.”

  Sinoval found he could still talk, but only with great effort. “You… are… cursed!”

  She made a gesture of surprise. “My commendations on your strength, Sinoval. I would bet your Grey Council isn’t as strong. Don’t worry. I’ve something entirely different in mind for them.”

  “Why?”

  “The humans,” she replied. “This is all for their benefit. I’m sure you remember Sheridan’s capture last year? All that effort I went to arranging it. You always thought I was up to something. Well, I was. I was setting him up with the Enemy who is even now tearing your fleet apart. I was setting up all of humanity.

  “They destroyed my people. And why? Not for territory or money or power, but because we were evil. They could never act like we did. We appalled their sense of morality… Guess what, Sinoval? They will become us. With the Shadows at their side, humanity will spread chaos and death across the galaxy, bringing death on a scale that we could scarcely even hope for. And they will begin with you.”

  “Wrong,” Sinoval said, twitching his lips in a parody of a smile. “Some… humans… have… honour. You… won’t win…”

  “Yes. Some humans do have honour. Not unlike Sheridan, I suppose? Even after all the blandishments of the Shadows, he still wouldn’t join them. I’m prepared for that as well.

  “What afflicted you is just a mild poison. A paralysing agent, that’s all. I have far deadlier devices in my arsenal. There’s one I have in mind. It’s very slow-acting. A variable incubation period – no more than two or three years. After which it turns terminal in less than a week. There’s only one cure, and the Shadows have it. I’ll infect all those humans who are too noble, too pure, too enlightened to join my crusade willingly, and I’ll give them the choice. Voluntary slavery to the Shadows – knowing full well what they’ve done. Or death.”

  “They’d… rather… die.”

  “Oh, Sinoval. Do grow up. Death and I are old friends. They don’t call me Deathwalker for nothing. I’ve spent all my life avoiding her, and so does everyone else. Every day every living being fights to stay alive, whatever the cost, whatever the shame, whatever it takes… It’s the strongest urge of every living being – the urge to survive. They’ll accept the cure, no matter the cost. And so will Sheridan. He will be the first.”

  “What? When… will you…?”

  “When will I start? Sinoval, I told you to grow up. Do you really think I’d tell you all this if I hadn’t started already?

  “I infected Sheridan over an hour ago.”

  Chapter 6

  In Valen’s Name…

  In Valen’s Name, what have I done?

  Alone in his quarters, paralysed, trapped with his thoughts and his memories and his anger, Sinoval of the Wind Swords clan, Shai Alyt of the holy jihad, Satai of the Grey Council, Entil’zha, Holy One, waited.

  Deathwalker they called her, out in the Non-Aligned Worlds where her name was still feared and hated and remembered. Warmaster Jha’dur of the Dilgar. Deathwalker. For decades she had been gone, vanished, believed dead. Sinoval had known otherwise. He, and his predecessors in the Wind Swords clan had sheltered her, given her free rein to perform her sickening experiments and research, benefiting from her insane genius. And now Sinoval and all of Minbar would fall prey to that very same genius.

  Outside this room and this spaceship, Minbari were fighting against the Ancient Enemy spoken of in Valen’s prophecies. Fighting and dying. Sinoval had decided to order a retreat. The Enemy was too strong for them. But he had been deceived by the enemy within his very stronghold.

  Deathwalker had spoken of her monument, of her legacy. Humanity would spread terror and death across the galaxy and become the very embodiment of the race they had destroyed. What a fitting irony. The first stage of this would be the destruction of the Minbari, the same race who had become like the Dilgar in nearly destroying humanity.

  And Sinoval had enabled it all to happen.

  His mind was burning with a revelation so intense that it left no room for sanity, no place for calm or reserve. No emotion could ever convey the feelings burning within his mind.

  In Valen’s Name…

  You told me! he cried out inside his mind. You told me I had a destiny! You came to me in a vision and said that I would unite all of Minbar behind me, take my people to their fullest destiny! Was this the destiny you spoke of? To destroy them? Is this to be our fate?

  He cast his mind back many years, to the first time he had stepped within the Dreaming. He had been at Varmain’s side. The legendary warrior-diplomat was dying and she wished one last confirmation that what she had done had been right. He had been a hesitant child then, anxious and concerned, afraid to look up at one so touched by Valen.

  “I cannot have a guide who will not look up,” Varmain had told him, in that gently forceful tone of hers, the voice that had humbled ambassadors, prophets and emperors. “You will be forever bumping into things.”

  And he had looked up, and what had he seen? An old woman, who limped and hobbled, whose eyes were dimmed and whose movements were slow. Once warriors and prophets and rulers had trembled at the sound of her footsteps. Now she was simply old and frail, and needed his help to walk.

  That had been an important realisation. Everyone, no matter how great, fell in time. No one could be victorious forever. He had later learned a saying from the decadent Centauri. ‘Let no man be called happy or great until he be dead.’ It had fit Varmain perfectly.

  They had entered the Dreaming and Varmain had sat down, ushering him to sit beside her. She had talked slowly of her past and of her great deeds, all immortalised in legend. They had relived her childhood and her love through the images of the Dreaming. At one point she had stopped breathing and Sinoval turned to her. Her eyes opened and she smiled.

  “So much,” she had said. “Valen has blessed me indeed.”

  And then she died.

  He had not been sure of how to react. Should he leave, call out to the people who waited in the Whisper Gallery, wait for them to come to him?

  And then he saw Valen. Who else could it be – a glowing figure who looked at him, wreathed all in light, reaching out an arm. “Minbar’s destiny lies in your hands, Sinoval of the Wind Swords clan,” he said. “You wi
ll reunite Minbar, lead my people to their destiny. Through you, will the Minbari rule the galaxy.”

  He had passed out then, and when he had awoken, days later, he remembered the vision, and Valen’s words, convinced of the rightness of his destiny. He had thrown himself into his work, training alongside Durhan, then still in the prime of life, working hard to rise in the ranks of his clan. When the war came he was an Alyt. By its end he was Shai Alyt, one of Branmer’s most trusted advisors. After that, he had risen and risen. Made Satai after Sheridan’s assault on the Grey Council over Mars, he soon became the dominant warrior caste voice after Shakat resigned, never having recovered from his injuries sustained in the attack over Mars. Then, with Deathwalker’s help, his power grew. People loyal to him, such as Tryfan and Kalain, gained power in the great fleet being massed against the Enemy, and in the Rangers. After Branmer’s death and Neroon’s disappearance, Sinoval was the obvious choice to become the next Entil’zha. All it took was Delenn’s disappearance. After that, the title of Holy One was easy. Sinoval now walked where no one save Valen had in a thousand years.

  And all it had cost him was his soul.

  Deathwalker had damned him, and doomed Minbar.

  No. He had damned himself, and doomed Minbar himself.

  In Valen’s Name! Was this the destiny I was promised? Is this it?

  No, said a voice.

  Sinoval looked around, as much as Deathwalker’s poison would let him. There was no one in sight.

  “Who?” he asked. It took impossible effort even to speak.

  You have a destiny. But your pride has subverted you from it. Learn from this. Your destiny is not yet confirmed.

  “Valen,” he whispered. “Forgive… me… Valen. I…”

  You must forgive yourself. Learn of your destiny, Sinoval of the Wind Swords. You must learn.

  His body was suddenly bathed in light. He closed his eyes tightly and screamed as pain tore through him. His arms jerked outwards, so that they were thrust out. Hidden nails of light pinned his hands and feet to the ground.

  “Valen…” he cried. “Valen!”

  The light faded and he opened his eyes. He could feel himself again. Slowly, hesitantly, he staggered to his feet, almost falling as he did so. “Valen, are you…?” There was no one.

  “Isil’zha veni,” he whispered.

  Deathwalker. He had to save his people. He had to stop Deathwalker. He had to order the retreat, before his people were destroyed. He had to…

  Suddenly, Sinoval stopped. He still had his pike – one of Durhan’s nine blades – but that did not seem enough. He went to the small table, one of the few items of furniture in the room, and picked a small item up from it. It was a weapon, a human weapon. He had taken it from Sheridan over a year ago, the last time the human had been held prisoner on Minbar. He thought he knew how to use it.

  He picked it up and stuffed it into a pocket in his robe.

  “I will not fail you, Valen,” he whispered.

  “Isil’zha veni.”

  In Valen’s Name…

  * * * * * * *

  Warleader Na’Kal of the J’Tok looked up at the two ships soaring slowly towards him and the Centauri warship, and closed his eyes. He was not a particularly pious man – his mother had been a haphazard follower of G’Lan, his father had died before Na’Kal had emerged from his mother’s pouch. He did however believe in G’Kar, not as a prophet, or as a holy figure, but as a man, as one man with a vision. He did not necessarily believe in that vision, but he knew the chaos his home planet was in. He knew, like G’Kar, that the Narns were a dying people unless action could be taken. Their current war with the Centauri proved that. Na’Kal had fought in the previous war, and he knew just how closely the Narns had come to being annihilated and occupied again. But no, no one else believed that. And now they were making the same mistakes they had always made.

  There was something G’Kar had said during his last speech before the Kha’Ri, something he had later repeated in private to Na’Kal. ’Freedom brings responsibility, which is why so many fear it.’

  For those raised during the occupation, such as G’Kar and Na’Kal, freedom had come at a very high cost. For those who were younger, freedom was all they had ever known.

  The Narns were a dying race, and they would stay that way unless G’Kar did something about it. No one else could.

  But perhaps Na’Kal could make a difference.

  “Captain Mollari,” he said over the commlink. “How is your telepath?”

  “Only barely conscious,” came the reply. “Certainly not able to hold them off. What about yours?”

  “One dead, one near to burn-out.” Narn telepaths had been created recently in a private deal between G’Kar and a human telepath. As of yet they were unstable and low-powered.

  “Well,” Carn Mollari said. “How many of their ships have you taken out? Just for the bet?”

  Na’Kal smiled. “Two of their big ships. Five of the smaller ones. You?”

  Carn made a gesture of surprise. “The same. Uncle Londo will be disappointed. If we can’t best a Narn, who can we beat?”

  “It is not over yet. Remember to toast our memory when you celebrate.”

  “What? Na’Kal, don’t…”

  Na’Kal deactivated the commlink. He looked up at the ships approaching him. Huge, black, vast against the night of space. Ancient, timeless, powerful. The symbol of past legends, past nightmares, past fears…

  Na’Kal closed his eyes and ordered a full forward charge, activating a full-focussed, forward blast as he did so. The J’Tok could not maintain such firepower or such speed long, but it would not need to.

  The first Shadow ship’s energy blast tore into the front of the J’Tok, destroying everything and everyone on the bridge in a blinding flash of light, but that did not matter.

  The J’Tok smashed into the vessel, and exploded. The Shadow ship emitted a scream that tore through the minds of everyone on board the Valerius, as it died.

  Na’Kal had won his bet after all.

  * * * * * * *

  “Valen said that we would reunite with the other half of our soul in a war against the common enemy. We all know who the Enemy is, and they have returned. As for the other half of our soul…”

  Delenn drew a deep breath and hoped that her wince at the pain in her chest was not noticeable. She could see that many of those looking at her were doing so with hatred and suspicion. She was Zha’valen – outcast. By all rights they should not even be listening to her.

  “The other half of our soul are the humans. They share our souls. They have Minbari souls. Minbari and humans are closely linked. My very presence here proves it. I am now partially human. I made this change to become a bridge between our peoples, a focus point to unite us against the Enemy.

  “We have lost our way. We have all abandoned our covenant with Valen! This war… it is wrong. We are destroying our own souls, and we are forsaking Valen’s memory and wishes. If we have abandoned him, if we have abandoned everything that makes us who we are, then what do we have left?”

  There was a moment’s silence. Delenn could see the bitter, angry gazes focussed on her. Beside her Lennann shuffled his feet nervously. She knew that this was dangerous. By Minbari law no one should speak to her, or even look at her. But she had to try. She had to make then listen. She had to make them understand.

  “You tell us, Delenn,” said a voice she knew and recognised. Callenn, head of her clan. He had always been so convinced of Minbari purity. She remembered his reaction when Dukhat had been killed – a fury that rivalled that of any warrior.

  “You tell us what our future holds. Looking like you – becoming like you. Letting the humans kill us all as they killed Dukhat, and Shakiri, letting them cripple us as they crippled Shakat and Branmer. I would have thought that you more than anyone would not be advocating this course. Remember that it was you whose casting vote began this war.”

  Delenn remembered. How could she ever
forget?

  “I remember,” she said softly. “And I freely admit it as a mistake. I was wrong! We were wrong! How far must we go before we admit our mistake? How many must we kill before we realise we are fighting the wrong enemy? In how much blood must we all wade before we realise this is wrong?”

  “You have been among humans too long, Delenn,” Callenn noted. “You have even begun to speak like them.”

  “The humans have their own perspective on things. Who is to say that theirs is any less accurate than our own?”

  “Certainly not a traitor. The Grey Council has named you Zha’valen, Delenn. The Grey Council calls you traitor, anathema. The Grey Council says that you helped Sheridan Starkiller escape from his imprisonment before. The Grey Council says that you work with the Enemy, of your own will. Now perhaps the Grey Council is wrong, but your very appearance before us, looking like that, speaking those words… that confirms that it is you who has lost your way, Delenn. It is you who has abandoned our covenant with Valen. It is you who has betrayed us all.

  “I do not hate you, Delenn. You have been corrupted by humans, by the Starkiller. I simply pity you. You have lost your way. And so, in memory of what you once were, I do not wish to punish you any more than has already been done.

  “In sorrow, and memory, Delenn.”

  Callenn inclined his head gently, not making the full Minbari gesture of departure, and then he left. Slowly, the others began to file out after him. “No!” Delenn cried. “You must listen! Please, you must listen to me!”

  But they did not listen, and they did not care. Only one other person stopped to look at her before leaving. Delenn recognised him. It was Ashan, a member of the Third Fane of Chudomo, and an acolyte in service to the Grey Council.

  He said one word. “Zha’valen.”

  And then he left.

  Lennann touched Delenn’s shoulder gently. “I am sorry, Delenn,” he said. “We tried.”

  “But we did not try hard enough,” she said, her eyes blazing. “We will try harder.”