Franklin was the only one remotely at ease in this room, spartan and dark as were all Narn accommodations. A rack of candles rested on a stone table, an ancient book caught in their flickering glow. Keffer was hanging around the back of the room, plainly wishing he were somewhere else. Connally was still recovering from whatever it was Na’Far had given her, and Sheridan… he just wanted to be away from here.
“Oh, the same as usual, Lieutenant,” Na’Far replied. “Or so I am led to believe. I am a little far out from the political hub here, you know.”
“Yes, but still, your help has been very valuable to us, Administrator,” Sheridan said. Was that a flash of something in the Narn’s blood-red eyes? Something mysterious?
“It is freely given, Captain. In memory of Gorash Fifteen. How long will your repairs take?”
“About twenty-four hours or so.”
“Ah.” The Narn suddenly looked down. “I am sorry for this, Captain. The order came directly from the Kha’Ri themselves. I disagreed, but I cannot ignore it.”
Every instinct in Sheridan’s body was warning him about something, and then he caught it. Not a smell, not a sound or a sight, but a feeling. A feeling that had never been wrong before. Minbari!
Instantly, he grabbed his PPG and spun round so that his back was to the wall. It was too late. The door of Na’Far’s room burst open and six Minbari poured in, big ones, wearing black and carrying those pikes of theirs. Warrior caste. Sheridan fired instantly, catching the first one square in the chest. The Minbari fell, but the others were fast, so damned fast.
Keffer was nearest to them. He made a brief movement of surprise, but was helpless as a pike smashed across his face, sending him tumbling back against the wall, still and unmoving. Poor Warren. He only ever seemed alive in his beloved Starfury. Sheridan fired again, but this time he inflicted only a flesh wound.
Franklin had tried to draw his own PPG, but his instincts were still those of a doctor, not a warrior, and he was felled with simple blows to the leg and side. Connally had managed to get her weapon out, and she had downed one Minbari.
The ship! The ship comes first! Sheridan activated his link as quickly as he could. “Sheridan to Corwin! Get out of here! Repeat! Get the hell out of here! Corwin, you…” A pike struck his arm, knocking him off balance and causing him to fumble his PPG. He tried lunging forward with a punch, but it barely connected.
Damn Minbari! They were too fast, and too good.
A pike crashed against his skull, and consciousness faded.
Elsewhere, out on the Rim, a dead world swarmed with life once more. From a world called only Z’ha’dum, a shuttle rose up and flew into space.
Chapter 2
General William Hague looked out from his office window over the grey slag heaps and dusty skies of Proxima 3, and sighed softly. What sort of place was this for a human to live? Where were the grass, the trees, the soft whistling of birdsong in the morning? Proxima 3 was a wasteland, a strategically valuable and important wasteland to be sure, but a wasteland all the same.
It was also the new home of the human race.
Ever since the Minbari had conquered and then proceeded to destroy Earth, humanity had been forced to flee, anywhere and everywhere. Most of their colonies had already fallen – Orion crushed, Mars torn apart, the Vega system under threat and only saved by letting the Narns take control. Proxima 3 was the last bastion of human strength, the site of the last, best hope for victory over the Minbari. A dry, desolate, foul world.
And who was that last, best hope for victory? Not General Hague himself, certainly not President Marie Crane or Vice President Morgan Clark. No, the last, best hope of the human race was a man who was dead in every way that counted except for the physical. Captain John J. Sheridan. The Starkiller.
And that last, best hope was over thirty hours overdue from a routine scouting mission to Sector 14. He and his Babylon were effectively all that was left of the once mighty Earthforce. If he was lost anywhere, then so was Earthforce, some ten years after Earth itself was lost.
General Hague had not been present at Earth during the last ditch defence that was the Battle of the Line. He had been vainly trying to defend the Orion colonies, only for the Minbari to tear through their defences as if they did not even exist. If Sheridan had not come to the rescue shortly before launching his almost apocalyptic assault on the Minbari fleet in what became known as the Battle of Mars, Hague would have died at Orion.
His communit buzzed and he moved back to the desk. About time, John, he thought. I’m too old for you to give me shocks like this. But the face that appeared in the communit was not Sheridan, but his second, Commander David Corwin.
“What is it?” Hague asked. “Report, Mr. Corwin.”
“Our initial scouting of Sector Fourteen showed that the area was empty, sir. No sign of any Centauri encroachment. But we did run into a Minbari cruiser, probably also on patrol. We destroyed it in a firefight, but the Babylon was seriously damaged. Communications were down and jump engines dangerously unstable. The captain ordered us to put into Vega Seven for repairs. He went down to the surface to meet with Administrator Na’Far, and did not return. I received a message ordering me to take the Babylon away from Vega Seven, and only just in time. There was a Minbari cruiser hidden just behind Vega Seven’s moon. Captain Sheridan and Lieutenants Franklin, Keffer and Connally are unaccounted for. They may be dead, or captured. Fortunately we have managed to complete most of our repairs, with communications systems only recently back on line. I am requesting permission to return to Vega Seven and find the captain, sir, and to launch a rescue attempt if necessary.”
General Hague sat back and rubbed at his eyes. “Permission denied, Commander.”
“But, sir…”
“I said permission denied. The Babylon is too valuable to risk. If Vega Seven has been compromised, all we can do is notify the Narn Government and abandon the area. As for Captain Sheridan… if he is alive, then I am sure he will be able to evade or escape capture and make his way here. He is very resourceful, as you well know. And if he is dead, then I cannot and will not let you risk our only surviving heavy cruiser on a suicide run. We all need the Babylon too much, Commander.”
“General, please!”
“That is an order, Commander! You are to return to Proxima Three immediately for a full debriefing. Is that understood?”
“Yes, General.”
“Good. Hague out.” The viewscreen went blank and Hague buried his head in his hands in despair. What to do when even the last, best hope was gone? First, have a drink, and second, try to find something to tell Sheridan’s wife.
Corwin also sat back from his viewscreen on the bridge of the Babylon. “Like hell!” he spat. “Lieutenant, set course for Vega Seven. We’re going to get the captain back if we have to tear every Minbari in existence apart.”
“I am Grey. I stand between the candle and the star. We are Grey. We stand between the darkness and the light. I come to take the place that has been prepared for me.” Delenn drew back the hood of her rough grey robe and stepped into the column of light, completing the circle of the Nine.
“It is good to have you back with us, Delenn,” said Satai Lennann to her right. “You seem to be away from us every chance you can get. I hope it is not our company?”
“No,” she said, smiling softly in reply. “I study the prophecies, Lennann. It is hard and tiring work.”
“I am sure it is,” barked a harsh voice from across the circle. “But we have a commitment to the nine, and to the covenant we formed with Valen. Do not forget that, Delenn. Your first duty is always to the Council, not to your personal quest. We are nine here after all, not eight.”