"He doesn't suspect anything, and no one else knows she's there. Well, no one apart from Bo. He runs that pub. He's the one who sent them to the clinic. As soon as I saw who she was, I knew I had to do something. I couldn't go to Security. That would mean they'd find out about my clinic and shut us down. You were the only person I could think of."
"What about that oath of yours? The one to treat all patients the same?"
"I'll treat everyone who needs it, yes. I don't ask who my patients are, and I think everyone deserves a second chance. I'll look after people wanted by Security, the lost, the alone, criminals, anyone. Everyone deserves medical care. Everyone deserves to be looked after.
"But she's killed billions of people. She killed my mother. I just.... I just had to do something. I had to tell someone. You'll.... be able to handle it, right?"
"I will indeed," Trace said with a smile. "You did the right thing. Go back to your clinic and pretend that nothing happened. I'll.... get things sorted out. Don't worry about anything."
"Thank you," she said, smiling. "I knew you would take care of things."
She left, and Trace waited for a few moments after the door closed before he began to laugh. This was what he had been feeling. This was what was going to happen.
This was his chance to get rid of Smith, to get his hands on that telepath, and to do a major service to the public at the same time. Delenn was the bad guy after all, wasn't she? R'Gov might say all kinds of things about a fair trial, but Delenn didn't deserve one of those. Pit justice would be more than enough to deal with her.
Roberts entered. "She's gone, boss."
"I know. Roberts...." Trace paused, thinking about the people outside. Poor, pathetic, deluded sheep, the lot of them. Brainless and worthless, easily led.
"There's something the people of Sector Three–o–one should know. Something I want you to tell them...."
Captain Francis Xavier DeClercq knew his reputation full well. For almost fifteen years it had been with him. A coward. A coward who had run while better men than him had stayed to fight the Minbari, and had died doing so. He still lived while better men then him had been dead for fifteen years.
He wanted to explain, to justify what he had done, but these days he could not, not even to himself.
Besides, it hardly mattered. The only people who might have understood were dead. All dead. Not just those who fell at Vega 7, but those who had fallen since. General Franklin, Captain Maynard, Captain Hiroshi, countless others, all their faces and names blurring into one.
All dead, and he still lived. He was still standing on the bridge of a ship that some people said he had no right to command.
His crew had been a little sceptical when they heard who was to be their commanding officer. A good number of them had requested a transfer, but some had stayed. Either they did not believe the stories, or they did not care. In either case they had served him, the Saint–Germain and Earthforce well in the months the ship had been operational. They had undertaken numerous missions, and succeeded.
Never once had they run.
And nor would they run now.
General Ryan had told them all what was happening. Long–distance probes had picked up the approach of the Alliance ships. For some reason known only to themselves they had abandoned their inroads towards the Vega system and were making directly for Proxima. There seemed little sense in this. Their approach would be clearly seen for hours before they could arrive. Defences, preparations, everything would be set up. There was the possibility that enemies might be brought around behind them. They had abandoned their victories in Vega.
It was seemingly the work of a madman, but DeClercq knew Sheridan's reputation. He was no madman.
The Saint–Germain had been sent ahead to scout out the numbers and deployment of the Alliance fleets. The hyperspace probes, tethered to the beacon signals, had given vague details, but the Saint–Germain had sensor arrays centuries in advance of anything humanity could come up with. Their allies, the Shadows, had lent their sensor technology to the Saint–Germain just as they had lent their weapons and defences to the De'Molay and the Dark Thunder.
They had been able to track the oncoming fleet without ever being noticed by them. Or so they had thought. DeClercq remembered with a moment's panic how Ensign Morgan had turned to him and said, "They know we're here."
It was impossible. No ships could sense the Saint–Germain from this far away, in hyperspace. Not human ships, nor Narn, nor Drazi, nor Minbari.
But these ships were not human ones, nor Narn, nor Drazi, nor Minbari. They were the new ships, the ones that had fought at Beta Durani and proved so deadly there.
The Saint–Germain had managed to escape, slipping into eddies and pockets of hyperspace, moving far from the beacon paths. Another ship would have got lost, but their navigational systems were able to negotiate the dark formlessness of hyperspace with stunning ease.
The border between dimensions opened, and the Saint–Germain slipped out into normal space. The De'Molay, the Dark Thunder and the Morningstar were waiting. DeClercq had dispatched the information he had gathered. The fleet approaching was huge, almost every Alliance ship available. This was against all tactical logic, and it troubled him. Sheridan was reckless, yes, but never foolish.
There was something all of them were missing, but in spite of voicing his concerns to Ryan, Tikopai and Barns, and in spite of pondering it for the hours they were waiting, he still could not see it.
The nearby probes had picked up the Alliance fleet. They were making no effort at all to hide their approach.
DeClercq sat forward. He would not run. Not this time. Proxima was not Earth, but it was their home, and he would not abandon it.
A million jump gates opened, and the war fleet of the United Alliance appeared in the skies above Proxima 3. Space shimmered, and the Shadows were there to meet them.
We do not understand where we have failed the Z'ondar. We acted in what we believed to be his best interests. But we must accept his words, even if we do not comprehend them.... and we will hope that some day.... we will be able to make amends for the sin we do not understand.
And that in some way.... we will be able to serve him again.
Marrain stepped forward, falling silent. He remembered those words, to the exact letter. He had been present when they were spoken, Zarwin's last words to the Minbari as he went into exile. The Tak'cha carrying the staff stiffened. He clearly recognised the words as well.
"Who are you?" asked the Tak'cha, barely–restrained anger in his voice. He spoke Minbari fluently. "Who are you to desecrate this shrine?"
"Desecration? Hardly. I was here when this shrine was built. I spoke to Zarwin as he left here. He once told me that I would always be friend to the Tak'cha.... to the Unatoned."
"Who are you?"
"I am Marrain."
There were murmurs of anger at this revelation. They would think it a lie. They would have to. Everyone knew that Marrain must be dead by now. But did they know how he had died? Did they know how he had betrayed their precious Z'ondar?
"I am Sah'thai Vhixarion of the Unatoned," said the leader. "And you are a liar. Marrain, our friend and ally, is dead."
"And yet I stand here. Alive." Dead. He was dead. They were dead. Everyone was dead. "I was there at the first meeting with Zarwin. I guarded the Z'ondar at Mount H'leya. I fought alongside him."