"They wish to fight alongside us for a very.... specific goal, one that I am sure...." He looked at Marrago very closely as he said this. "One that I am sure none of us will object to pursuing. Her people have passion and resources, but they lack skilled generals, which they believe we can provide.
"I shall now let her introduce herself."
The alien stepped forward and looked around the circle. Marrago did not look at her, but at those she was looking at. The Sniper, the human, seemed uninterested. The Drazi snorted. Moreil.... Moreil sat forward in his chair, meeting her gaze. Something that might have been concern flickered across his alien features.
"Greeting to those who march without banners," the alien said in a harsh, staccato voice. Marrago frowned. The rhythm of her words was out of joint, out of synch. Even allowing for the fact that she was speaking a language not her own — the Trade dialect most people understood — there was no structure to her speech.
"I speak as noMir Ru, Silent One of the Songless. Some of you may know as us the Tuchanq."
Now Marrago knew who they were, and he sat up. The Tuchanq.... their world had been invaded by the Narn.... twenty years ago, at least. They had gained freedom of a sort and.... just dropped out of sight. With everything that was going on in the galaxy it was not hard to lose track of what was happening at the edges.
Or in the shadows.
"We go to war, to spread the silence of those who denied us our Song. We seek allies here, amongst those who are as lost as we are. All have pain. We will give pain to those who gave pain to us. We ask that you fight beside us, that we fight together.
"We are ready now. For long years have we been still. Now we move. Now we have order. Silence blankets our world, and we are ready.
"We will attack and have our revenge."
She looked at Marrago, and just for a moment he saw something deeper, something beyond the silence and the emptiness and the nothing. Something that could have been more, could have been greater, could have been beautiful.
But it had been perverted and corrupted and become something else.
He shifted his gaze to Moreil, and was troubled by what he saw in the Z'shailyl's face. Moreil seemed.... fascinated, as if he were watching one of the mysteries of the universe unfolding before his eyes.
And then Marrago looked at Mi'Ra. She could not disguise the triumph in her eyes.
"We attack Centauri Prime. We spread the silence through fire and pain. We attack those who brought us pain.
"We ask for aid from the bannerless, from the songless, from the pained.
"What say you?"
Chapter 2
Will you come to find me?
Sheridan sat up and looked around. His waking was not the start and scream of a nightmare. It was the slow, puzzled emergence of one who was never truly asleep to begin with. Some people could move straight from sleep to full wakefulness with no period of transition. John Sheridan was not that sort of person, at least not usually.
Beside him Delenn was still sleeping, silent and still and as beautiful as a statue touched by the sunrise. He brushed her hair with his fingers and was surprised by just how cold she was, like marble not yet warmed by the sun.
He rose from their bed and walked through to the bathroom. There was no sound at all. That was unusual. There was always.... something. There was no night on Babylon 5, not really. There was always someone up — security guards, the usually nocturnal Brakiri, the terminally insomniac.... someone.
He poured some water and splashed it on his face, hoping it would wake him up. It did no such thing. He rubbed at the stubble on the side of his face and sighed. Sometimes he hated shaving. It was hard enough managing enough co-ordination just to get dressed some mornings, without having to shave as well. Maybe he could forgo it for today. Would anyone really notice? He looked into the mirror to see how bad it was.
Nothing looked back at him.
He started and touched the cold surface. It was there. It was solid, and it was reflecting the rest of the room perfectly. Just not him. He looked around to make sure. Yes, everything was there. The corner of the shower screen, the towel rail on the opposite wall, the window.
The window?
Where had that come from?
He walked slowly over to it, the silence now uncomfortably oppressive. Some strange, primal urge came over him, an overwhelming compulsion to return to bed, to the warmth and safety that existed there and nowhere else, to pull the blanket over his head and hide from whatever was out here.
He hadn't felt this afraid since he had been a child and convinced that the scarecrows were coming to life and trying to get in his bedroom window.
He touched the curtains. They were solid. They were real. They had that texture of dampness and roughness that spoke of a most definite reality.
He could have sworn this room hadn't had a window before.
He threw the curtains open.
A dazzling light seared his eyes and he stumbled backwards, raising his arms instinctively, but knowing it was too late. It had blinded him, the light was tearing him apart, filling his mind and his soul and covering everything it found there, like a layer of oil over the surface of an ocean.
Will you come to find me?
The voice came with the light, repeating the question over and over again.
Will you come to find me?
He reeled away from the window, falling backwards. He reached out frantically, seeking anything to stabilise himself. A firm, stone hand caught him and helped him steady himself. Slowly, awkwardly, he pulled his hand away from his face.
There was a grey robe in front of him, almost like a monk's. He could see no face inside it, in fact there was no sign of anything inside it, anything at all.
"Will you come to find me?" said a voice from the robe. "You have been asked that already. Someone tried to warn you. You did not listen, did you?"
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Babylon Four. Before the fire, before the fury, the calm before the storm. Someone tried to warn you of what would come, dressing up the warning in dreams and whispers and premonitions. You did not listen. Will you come to find me?"
Understanding dawned. "I did go to find her. I went to Z'ha'dum. I...."
"Left her there? How can you blame her for what happened?"
"I don't know. I shouldn't, but...."
"Emotions. Irrational little things, aren't they? Or so I'm told. You should have listened to the warning, but it was just one more door you closed behind you without really looking at what was beyond it. How many of those have there been?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Who are you trying to convince? Me — or yourself?"
"I don't even know who you are."
"Do you even know who you are?"
"I...."
"Don't answer that. You can't. Ask yourself this, though. What other warnings have you ignored? What other doors have you slammed shut and lost the key for? What else have you forgotten or lost or simply not understood?"
He looked down. There was a dagger in his hands. Blood was dripping from it.
"We all sacrifice a great deal on the altar of victory. When does the time come when the sacrifice becomes more than the God is worth?"
"I don't know."
"No, you don't. Think on that, for a while."
The man in the monk's robe was gone. The dagger was gone. The window was gone. The light was gone.
John Sheridan reached one trembling hand to the mirror and looked at his reflection. It had returned, and for the first time in his life he seemed to be looking at a stranger staring back at him.