"I'll say some things," said someone. The crowd parted, and an old man hobbled forward. Trace's eyes narrowed. Smith turned to look at the emerging figure and made to say something, but the words failed.
His gait was twisted, one leg dragging along, withered and bent. There were dark burn marks down the side of his face, and one eye was a mass of black scar tissue.
"You don't know who I am, do you?" he said to Delenn. She said nothing in reply. "Name's Duncan," he said after a while. "Wasn't a soldier, wasn't a scientist or a big fancy diplomat. Just a man who carved things and sold them in the market.
"Was on a passenger ship, me, my wife, my daughter. Wasn't military or nothing. Your people attacked us, blew it up good and then left us floating in space. Me.... I was lucky, maybe. I got out alive, after all. Only three of us did. Wife and daughter.... well.... That was nine years ago. Been living here ever since, just.... I don't know. Just remembering.
"Don't hate you or nothing. Just.... wanted to know. Why? Why did you do it all?"
"It...." Delenn breathed out. "It was a...." She shook. "It was a mistake."
"Ah," said Duncan. He nodded, and then turned and hobbled back towards the crowd.
"See!" said Trace. "A mistake? What kind of justification is that? Is that any way to explain all the dead, all the injured, all the lives lost? That's no excuse in my book." He looked at Smith, and the dark light of triumph burned in his eyes.
"Now, not that I see the point, but these things must be done fairly, I suppose. Does anyone want to speak for her?"
Smith moved, but Delenn reached out to touch his chest, and he fell back. "I will speak," she coughed. She stepped forward. "I.... am sorry. For everything. For those who died, for those who were hurt, for those who lost their lives and their loves and their souls.
"And I am sorry for all of you, for all those who have been lost, for those who have walked through the last sixteen years alone and afraid and in darkness.
"What we did was wrong, and I am sorry. But our people have known loss and grief and darkness just as yours have. They have learned to hate, just like you. This cycle cannot continue. Unless it is ended, both our races will be destroyed. And if it takes one more death to end this.... then that is what must be paid."
She stepped forward and spread her arms wide. "I came here for many reasons. To explain, to say I was sorry.... but most importantly to end this cycle, to set aside finally the ways of hate and death that have engulfed us all for sixteen years. And if I must die to do that.... then I will die."
"No!" cried Smith.
"Then I will die," she said again.
There was a whispered hush over the crowd. Some shook their heads, some spoke in soft tones to their friends. Some moved forward, brandishing weapons.
It was Trace who was the first to speak aloud. "Yeah," he said. "You'll die. That's what you deserve, after all. What all your kind deserve."
"Me, perhaps," she replied. "But not all Minbari. If any of you learn anything from today, learn this. The sins of the one do not carry through to the many."
"I think we should kill her now," he said. "Just so we don't have to listen to any more Minbari philosophy." There was nervous laughter. Smith moved forward. "And there's just the person to do it," Trace said. "Our executioner, so kindly come forward. Well.... you are going to accept this offer, aren't you? Or are you going to take her part over that of your own people?"
"No!" Smith cried. "This isn't right."
"It is right," Delenn said. "I came here to touch people. Maybe I have reached you.... If so, then my death will not be a waste. If just one person takes something good away from this...."
"I can't do it."
"You must.... or they will kill you as well, and then my death will not mean anything. You cannot protect me from everything. You have done more than enough for me already, and I thank you for it.... but this you must do."
"I...."
"I do not blame you."
"I'm.... I'm.... sorry."
"And so am I."
"Here you are," said Trace, tossing over a PPG. "That'll do it nicely. A bit quick, but then I forgot to bring the nails for a crucifixion, so this will have to do."
"Damn you," he hissed.
"Never gonna happen. Why? I'm the good guy, remember. After everything she's done, I can't help but be the good guy. That's a nice feeling. I'll have to be the good guy again."
"Do it!" cried someone from the crowd. There was half–hearted encouragement, but the fury seemed to have gone out of them.
"Yes," Trace said, sensing this. "Do it."
"Go on," Delenn said. "I am not afraid. If you see John.... No. He knows. I will meet him again."
"Do it!" cried Trace again.
Smith raised the weapon.
Delenn closed her eyes.
"Do it!"
He fired.
Delenn's body fell.
Chapter 5
In almost a hundred and fifty years, since telepathy was discovered amongst humans, a wide range of tests had been carried out to determine the extent of the powers, skills and abilities telepaths could possess. The first human encounter with aliens and the discovery that they had telepaths too only heightened the urgency.
One early theory was that a network of telepaths could be set up to provide completely secret, near–instant communication between any number of strategic locations. Experiments were marginally successful, but the limitation of most telepaths to line–of–sight range ultimately proved too problematic. Similar ideas were later broached regarding telepathic communication in space, when it was discovered that hyperspace extended telepathic range. Here, however, it was lack of knowledge regarding hyperspace itself that caused the problems.
There were secret reports filed in certain places speculating that certain alien races might be able to utilise telepaths in this fashion. Psi Corps managed to obtain most of these reports.
William Edgars was no scientist, but he had always possessed a quick mind and a willingness to accept ideas that others would regard as.... unusual, or even impossible. He was also more than willing to listen when it was explained exactly what would be needed of him.
Telepathic signals did travel better through hyperspace due to the strange properties of that other universe, properties not even the Vorlons understood well. The Vorlons did understand telepaths, however, very well indeed. They understood enough for their purposes.
All that was needed was a powerful telepath, of any race, at certain key locations in the galaxy, bound to a machine. Vorlon technology was organic, and so better able to siphon and direct telepathic powers than the cold harshness of machinery. Then hyperspace corridors were created, linking these nodes to each other, direct links from one to another, focussed in little pockets. Human technology could not do this, nor could most other races.
But the Vorlons had the knowledge, the power and the cold–hearted will to do whatever was necessary. They had created telepaths as weapons, and it was as weapons they would be used.
The effect of this network was to allow telepaths to draw on the powers of other telepaths, building exponentially, the whole far greater than the sum of its parts. With a little proper direction.... the effects could be devastating. Much of Vorlon space had been protected in this manner, but never before had the network been extended outside Vorlon territory.
Never until now.
Byron's eyes opened. Light filled him, filled his mind. He had no consciousness now, save a little voice that might once have been his, screaming, a tiny echo in a mass of other screams.
His body shook as the hyperspace conduit opened behind him, in front of him, all around him. He was the gateway between the two worlds, the minds of a billion telepaths forming the telekinetic shield that protected against the gravity distortion.