But there were many satellites, and the Dark Star ships were limited.
One satellite, far away from the others, far away from the ships, prepared to fire. It was nothing but a soulless piece of machinery. It did not care that it had been designed to protect those same people it would now be destroying. It had no heart, no susceptibility to pleas for mercy, to compassion, to forgiveness.
A minute before it was ready Corwin saw it, and made a desperate effort to get within range, knowing he could not. The Agamemnon was too far away. It had all been for nothing.
But then a ship came into view.
DeClercq had been following the situation as much as he could with the limited sensors available on the Saint–Germain. Something unusual had happened only a few minutes earlier, and a hurried consultation with Engineering had revealed that whatever had been paralysing the ship was now gone. It would, however, still take time to repair the damage.
"Any word on the weapons?" he asked again. His heart was beating so fast, he felt it might tear itself from his chest. He knew what had to be done. He had received the message warning them all of what was going to happen to Proxima. He had not expected the Alliance fleet to do anything about it, and was pleasantly surprised to see that they were.
However, he too had seen the one isolated satellite, ready to fire.
"Weapons still inoperational," said Morgan.
It hardly mattered anyway. The Saint–Germain's weapons systems were little better than standard for an Earthforce capital ship. Her purpose had been to flee rather than go into battle.
It was a task perfectly suited for Francis Xavier DeClercq, the coward.
"Uh, Captain?" said Ensign Morgan. "The satellite's about to fire."
"I know," he said with perfect equanimity. Even had the Saint–Germain's weapons been operational, they would not have been able to destroy the defence satellite soon enough. The Dark Stars were ships of war, designed for this sort of thing. The Saint–Germain was not.
"What are your orders, Captain?"
"Ram it," said Francis Xavier DeClercq, the coward.
"Oh, boy. Setting ramming speed. Uh, Captain.... what if we ram too fast? I mean, is there meant to be a proper speed for this sort of thing? They didn't really let us carry out trials on this in training."
DeClercq did not answer. The joke was Morgan's way of facing the end. DeClercq wished he could find relief in humour, but as it was he closed his eyes and saw the Minbari sweeping forward, devils from the dark skies, lightning from the clouds of heaven. He saw himself fleeing from them, and his friends and colleagues dying in the cold vastness of space, a million miles from home.
"I will not fail again," he had promised himself on taking command of the Saint–Germain.
And he had not.
He did not open his eyes.
The final satellite was destroyed. The entire defence grid was destroyed. Proxima lived a little longer.
Her eyes were green, an endless pool shining and whirling, countless stars burning within, the knowledge and memories of a lifetime enshrined there. In them Dexter Smith could see his own soul, his own deeds, the longing of the past, the promise of the future.
Delenn blinked, and the image was shattered, but the memory would stay with him always.
"You're alive," he whispered. In a clearer mindset he would admit that was not the most profound observation he had ever made. Her eyes were open, she was breathing, she was moving, her soft skin was warm. Of course she was alive. He had never known anyone more alive.
"But I.... I saw you...."
She shook her head weakly, resting close to him. He gently took her hand and felt for a pulse, wondering belatedly if she even had a pulse any more. She did, strong and vital. The wound of the PPG blast had faded, as if it had never been there.
"I thought she was dead," Allan said.
"She.... she was."
Yes, said a voice, an alien voice, one filled with the wisdom of the ages. She was dead.
Still resting close to Smith, Delenn looked up, over his shoulder. He followed her gaze and saw the ghostly shadow of an alien, a member of a race he had never seen before. He was tall and aristocratic, great wisdom and understanding in his eyes.
"Lorien," Delenn whispered. "You.... said...."
I told you of the two paths before you. I told of the darkness through which you would walk, and the terrible sadness you would encounter.
"Yes, you did."
And because of your sacrifice.... good has been done. A tiny feather on the scales at the moment, but it will grow until it weighs more than all the grief and loss in the galaxy.
"She was dead?" Smith said. "I.... I killed her...."
She was dead, but her soul had not fully passed beyond. Something kept it here, grief and great loss. The Soul Hunters know the potential in such things. I cannot create life, that is the prerogative of the universe alone, but sometimes the universe rewards those who deserve it.
Your life is your own once more, Delenn of Mir. The struggle is not yet over, and none of us can see the ending of it.... but today there has been a small victory.
And for you, Dexter Smith, and you, Zack Allan, remember what you have seen this day. Remember, understand and learn. Your lives also begin anew this day.
The alien smiled and nodded once, briefly. Then he was gone, as if he had never been there.
"Was it just me," Zack asked, "or did no one understand a word of that?"
"I think we've been given a second chance," said Smith slowly. "We should go somewhere safe. Delenn, can you walk?" She nodded. Gently, tenderly, he helped her to her feet. "Where can we go?"
"Well," Zack said, "there's a few places around here she might be safe. We've got Security patrolling the sector after all. I think I know somewhere. Come on."
"Thank you," Delenn said, looking at both of them. Once more Smith was lost in her eyes. He nodded once, smiling sadly. Then, unable to think of anything to say, he followed Zack towards the safe place. And it was the safer for them being there together.
This is General Edward Ryan, of the Resistance Government of Humanity.
President Clark is confirmed dead. Ambassador David Sheridan has fled. Security Chief Welles is injured and detained in hospital. For the moment, Proxima is under my control.
We surrender to the forces of the United Alliance of Kazomi Seven. We stand down all ships, all arms and all military forces. I have issued this order.
We surrender.
A victory of sorts. Sinoval stood around, staring out into the depths of space. He could see a million stars, and it brought home to him in considerable measure his own insignificance. He understood Valen had come here often, to this.... observation post. He could understand why.
"What do you see?" he asked his companion thoughtfully. She had been silent all this time.
"Stars," Tirivail said. She sounded.... preoccupied, as if she had been deep in thought. "A lot of stars."
"Stars, yes. But there is something else. It is the entire universe. Everything is out there. Everything. We are nothing but a tiny part, a cosmic insignificance, all of us. We are nothing. We live, we die.... all unnoticed by the universe itself."