"Yeah, well.... I can't take all the credit for that. You've helped out a bit.... and then there's Delenn...." Smith shook his head. "Is there any chance of getting to the point sometime soon?"
"Impatience.... a quality of the young. At my age, Mr. Smith, you realise the full value of time.... and of waiting. As I said, I've been observing events in Sector Three–o–one, and helping out with some.... minor matters as best as I can. I've become aware of some very interesting things, in particular that you've been sheltering young Miss Tikopai. There are quite a few members of the new administration who might want to talk to her."
"What would be the point? Her mother's surrendered. She wasn't even charged with anything."
"True. However.... if Miss Tikopai were to be.... closely observed, she might be a handy disincentive to her mother, should she have any ideas about objecting to the new order." Edgars waved his hand. "Anyway, that does not matter to me. Any hint of a military coup and I will be aware of it and.... a certain word in the right ear and things would come to a drastic halt. General Sheridan is not of course aware of this, and so one can forgive his caution. I speak of Miss Tikopai only as an example of my knowledge of your affairs."
"I'm fully aware of how much you know, Mr. Edgars."
"I doubt that, Mr. Smith. Anyway, the point.... As you know, the new Senate is forming.... slowly. Colonial Governors, civil servants and so forth. Largely uninspiring. It could use a.... renowned public figure.... such as yourself."
"You aren't the first person to tell me I should run for the Senate. I'm busy where I am."
"Ah.... but there is only so much you can do where you are now. You don't even have any official title. In the Senate, you would have influence.... power.... and who knows? Within a few years you could even be President."
Smith couldn't resist a laugh. "President Smith? How about Mr. Smith goes to Proxima? I'm sorry.... I don't want to be President."
"Making you the perfect choice. But that is for the future. The Senate.... Proxima, humanity even.... need people like you. You can do so much more to help your Sector Three–o–one there than you can now."
"And what do you get out of this?"
"Ah, yes.... Mr. Smith.... I have dedicated my life to the human race, to the protection and preservation of those of us not.... gifted with telepathic powers. It is often.... useful to have highly placed allies who agree with me. We both want what is best for Proxima and for humanity, and I would rather have a man who believes in the same things as I do in the Senate than a petty time–server only interested in feathering his own nest."
"I'm a telepath, remember. What makes you think I'd vote the way you want?"
"You cannot read minds, Mr. Smith. A slender distinction.... but a vital one. In any event, I will not demand you try to enforce an immediate cull. But I know you.... share some of my concerns, and leaving aside the telepath issue, I know you want what is best for humanity. I know I can rely on you to take action in the Senate, to do what you think is right."
Smith sat back. "I won't say I haven't been thinking about this, but.... I don't want power."
"As I said.... that makes you the perfect person to have it. There is no need for a decision immediately. Think about what I have said. If you decide you do want to put yourself in contention, let me know. I will do the rest.
"Oh, and Senator Smith might have more luck arranging an appointment with General Sheridan than plain private citizen Smith."
Smith stood up. "I won't ask how you knew about that."
"That, Mr. Smith, would be very wise."
"Are you there? Can you hear me, Carolyn?"
There was no reply. That did not surprise him. Carolyn never spoke to him when he was awake - only in his dreams, and then he rarely remembered their conversations. But he always awoke with the lingering echo of her voice and her screams in his mind.
Even now, after all this time adjusting to the idea, David Corwin could not believe what the Vorlons had done. Imprisoning telepaths within ships like this, leaving them conscious but paralysed, their minds linked in an endless network of pain. Monstrous was not the word to describe it.
But what could he do? The Vorlons were, for now at least, allies against the Shadows. Humanity certainly didn't have the technology to undo what the Vorlons had done in crafting the 'nodes' on the network that were the Dark Star ships.
He had gone wandering in the deeper reaches of the ship, looking for the chamber in which Carolyn would be imprisoned, despite Lyta's warning against such a move. He had had no success, just a screaming headache that had left him bedridden for days.
And so he had thrown himself into his duties. Much against his will, he had been appointed administrator of the shipyards here at Greater Krindar, co–ordinating the Alliance ships that beached here, arranging raiding parties into Shadow controlled territories. It was a level of responsibility he had not wanted and never expected. It was a strange feeling to be talking with generals such as Kulomani and Daro. To his discomfort they spoke with him as an equal, the inevitable result of shared experiences at the Battle of Proxima.
He had never wanted this. Never. At the back of his mind a million thoughts swirled, each one kept in careful check. He thought of his friend, General Sheridan, the man who had become a near stranger over the past year. He thought of Carolyn, trapped and paralysed somewhere in the heart of the ship in which he spent twenty–four hours a day.
He was also thinking about Lyta, thinking about her far too much.
He had never asked for this.
Still, the war was going well. The Dark Star patrols were beating back occasional Shadow raiding parties, liberating systems, destroying bases and outposts. The Shadows were pulling back, rarely risking an outright engagement. Corwin was beginning to realise that in a war of attrition, the Shadows would lose, and that they knew this.
That was not a welcoming thought. They were readying themselves, they were planning something. Besides, the Alliance might be able to win a war of attrition, but how many would they lose in doing so?
Still, time passed. Matters proceeded more or less according to plan. The war was slowly but surely being won.
The Shadows were content to wait.
Now. Awake.
The nameless man stirred. What is required of me?
He was told. Do not fail us.
I will not fail.
Know what is to happen. Know what your sacrifice will bring.
Images filled his mind. There was a glory, a great and powerful glory. Yes!
I am ready. I will not fail.
Like all the races known as the First Ones, the Shadows knew the value of patience. With countless millennia of existence behind them, with a dedicated purpose of social and galactic engineering, they had learned long ago to wait.
But they had also learned when to wait, and when to act.
There were some on Z'ha'dum who were coming to recognise that the war was over, that their race was finished. Factions were forming, at least, factions as the mortal mind would understand their society. Some advocated a token defeat and a slip into obscurity, waiting for the time to re–emerge. Others claimed that would not work, not again. What would they lose this time? Another thousand years? More?
Then there were those who held that it was all over, not just this war, but for all wars. They should leave this galaxy and join their brothers beyond the Rim, abandoning their ungrateful children to the Vorlons.