The Other Half of my Soul addm-1

by Gareth D. Williams

  “Delenn, if your own clan will not listen to you, then who…?”

  “The Grey Council. They will listen, if I have to make them listen. This is wrong, Lennann! This is wrong and I must show them that it is so. I was the chosen of Dukhat, and I held him when he died. His spirit is in my eyes. If he could see what his people have become, then he would curse us from where he now rests with Valen! I must fulfill his last legacy, Lennann.

  “The Grey Council will listen to me. There is no other alternative.”

  * * * * * * *

  David Corwin had seen many things in his life thus far. He had seen life, he had seen death. He had seen the terrifying sight of Minbari cruisers bearing down upon the Babylon. He had seen the joy in Susan’s eyes reflected in his own. He had seen the death in her eyes when she had betrayed them all. He had seen Delenn’s first, faltering steps as partially human. He had seen the Captain’s eyes in the second when he had killed his wife.

  David Corwin had seen many things, but nothing had affected him as badly as the sight of Alisa Beldon dying on the bridge of the Parmenion, shaking, trembling, whimpering, exhausted by her ordeals.

  Corwin was not a telepath, and he had always looked upon the trait with mixed feelings when he imagined what it would be like. The wonder of touching someone’s mind compared to the terror of the utterly alien. Alisa had been experiencing the latter for hours now, jamming and delaying the vast Shadow vessels, making contact with something so utterly, terrifyingly alien that it nearly paralysed him.

  The battle had not gone entirely as planned – the Captain’s capture for one thing – but at least they were still alive, and it looked as if Proxima 3 had been saved. From the Minbari at least. Whether it could be saved from the Shadows was another matter.

  Alisa’s eyes fluttered and Corwin knelt down beside her. Medical staff had been called, but he knew that it was futile. She was dying. She had drained herself. All for him and the Captain. She was dying because she trusted him to do the right thing with her life.

  Damn you, Bester! he thought. Damn you for making me do this! And damn the Captain for leaving and making me the one who had to be here. Damn all of them!

  “Did I… do… well?” she asked. He nodded, and closed his eyes, unable to think of anything to say.

  One of the techs looked up. “Another Shadow vessel closing, sir.”

  “Bring us around,” Corwin ordered. He rose, but he was still looking at Alisa. She tried to stagger to her feet as well. “Stay and rest,” he ordered.

  “Sorry, sir,” she whispered, looking up at the viewscreen and the approaching ship. “I… can’t… do… that…”

  He saw the ship hesitate. She wasn’t strong enough to paralyse it completely, but it was delayed.

  “Hit it!” he shouted. “Break that bloody thing apart!”

  Broadsides, forward cannon, all poured at the ship. It shook slightly as more and more energy rained on it. Before his eyes, it withered and died.

  It wasn’t the only one. As he turned, Alisa collapsed again. This time she would not get up. He knew it. He went to her side, and waited patiently as her last breaths faded. He did not have to wait long.

  Gently, he closed her eyes and looked back up at the viewscreen. Now he understood what he had never understood before. The Captain’s attack on the Minbari over Mars. Theoretically his attack should never have had the effect that it did. But he had torn apart a Minbari fleet and crippled the Grey Council. How? Pure anger. He had been working on a fury so intense, so strong, that it had been almost tangible.

  Corwin felt that strong now. He felt that anger. He felt that fury.

  Every instinct was telling him to pull back, to reorganise the ship, to draw in the Starfuries. It was the logical response, but he didn’t care about logic now.

  “Take us forward!” he ordered. “Into the fire.”

  * * * * * * *

  Captain Sheridan was also dwelling on life and death. When he was alone and in a seemingly difficult situation, he tended to fall into morbidity. While Delenn had been here his mind had been racing with ploys for escape, or a means to cheer her up. The two had ended up swapping stories with each other. He wasn’t sure, but he did think that some of her stories put paid to the old idea that Minbari did not lie.

  But now he was alone, surrounded by darkness. His plans for escape were still germinating, but for the moment had not reached fruition. His thoughts had moved back to that peculiar incident not long ago.

  The door had opened, and Sheridan had half started forward, expecting to see Delenn there. Instead it had been a figure he had not recognised. The figure stepped forward and the door closed.

  Anticipating an attack, he had tried to prepare himself, but there had been a sudden and almost impossibly fast thrust to his abdomen and he had fallen. There had been a light pin prick and a feeling of numbness in his neck and then he had blacked out. That was it. No words, no gloating, no… nothing.

  Perhaps it had been some sort of drug. Regardless, he was not worrying about it now. If he ever got out of this, then he would have to get it checked out by the doctors on Sanctuary. If he didn’t, then it didn’t matter, did it?

  He started. The door was opening again. For a small cell, this place was certainly busy. He waited for someone to enter, but no one did. “You may come out, Captain,” said a voice. The owner of the voice was speaking System English, but with a heavy Minbari accent. Sheridan slowly stepped forward and left the cell.

  The transition from the dark cell to the lit corridor had been a little difficult and he was forced to blink rapidly to order his vision. He kept himself close to the doorway in case this was a trick of some kind.

  It was not.

  The Minbari was wearing a white robe and he bowed slightly when he looked at Sheridan. “You are free, Captain,” the Minbari said. “Holy One Sinoval has ordered me to free you. If you will follow me, then I will escort you to a shuttle from where you may go back to your ship.”

  “What? Why would Sinoval do that?”

  “The Holy One does not share his reasonings with me.”

  “Where is Delenn?”

  The acolyte winced a little. “Where the Zha’valen is, is not my concern, Captain. You are. If you will…”

  “I’m not leaving without Delenn.”

  The acolyte made a gesture that in a human would be taken as a sigh. “Holy One Sinoval did say that you might take this attitude. I was expecting her to be here, but as she is not, I do not know where she is. I may, however, know one who does. If you will care to follow me.”

  “If this is some trap…”

  “Are all humans so paranoid? Surely if this were a trap, I could have left you in there. Oh, Holy One Sinoval told me to give this to you as well.”

  The acolyte handed over a small cylinder of metal. Sheridan recognised the pike Delenn had given him – the one she had taken from the future Susan aboard Babylon 4, the one that Susan had originally taken from Delenn during her capture on Minbar. Time paradoxes made his head hurt.

  Yes, this was definitely that pike. He extended it. The old bloodstains there were in exactly the same position he remembered. Evidently Susan had not cleaned it between whenever they were caused and the time Delenn had taken the weapon back.

  “This is a bit dangerous, isn’t it?” Sheridan said. “What if I attacked you with this now?”

  “That would not be advisable. Now. If you would follow me. We will see if we can find the Zha’valen.”

  * * * * * * *

  Choking I’m choking pain can’t think can’t think Marcus choking I’m choking pain Marcus Marcus… help me choking Marcus help me help me help me

  Lyta Alexander was hovering on the thin border between consciousness and unconsciousness and the equally thin border between sanity and madness. All she could see was the dark core of pain burning in the eyes of Susan Ivanova as she tried to choke her life from her.

  Again she tried to reach her telepathic powers and again she
failed. The sleepers she had been given were too strong. The Vorlon who had helped her override their control before was gone now. Either gone or not willing to help her. There was no weapon near enough, Ivanova’s Minbari fighting pike – the very one which had killed Marcus – having rolled out of her grip.

  She was alone, more so than she had ever been before.

  Marcus…

  Her body shook as she tried desperately to draw in some breath. A last, frantic urge to survive, to endure this brutal, pain-maddened assault. She had no time to think, no energy to rationalise. She could only see the woman who had killed the one she loved and who was now trying to kill her.

  She clawed out with her fingers, desperately trying to reach the pike, hoping beyond hope that it was still within reach.

  It wasn’t.

  Choking I’m choking Marcus help me Marcus you can’t be dead Marcus help me

  Lyta closed her eyes, willing at last to surrender. She would not be alone when she died. At least, she hoped she wouldn’t be. She hoped that she would meet up with Marcus again. She hoped that…

  Her fingers touched the pike’s cold surface and she instinctively wrapped them around it. For a moment she thought she was hallucinating, but then she felt it stick to her skin, the tackiness of Marcus’ freshly spilled blood.

  Acting almost on instinct, she extended the weapon. She had never wielded one before. She had never even seen one before, but that hardly mattered. There were many subtle fighting styles and techniques involved with the fighting pike, some of which took decades to master. Not even the legendary Durhan had learned them all.

  Lyta didn’t care. She wasn’t planning on fighting anyone with it.

  She manoeuvred the pike around and brought it up into Ivanova’s side. The Shadow agent started and loosened her grip on Lyta’s neck, allowing the telepath to breathe at last. Gasping, almost gagging for breath, Lyta brought the pike up again. The blow was harder this time and Ivanova fell back. She too seemed breathless and in agony.

  Lyta pulled herself up to a kneeling position and looked at Ivanova, breathing harshly, but her eyes still as dark. Slowly, almost without realising what she was doing, holding the pike in two hands, she swung it in a deadly arc.

  There was a slow, damp crunch as the weapon struck the side of Ivanova’s head. The Shadow agent slumped to the ground, her body engulfed by spasms and twitches. Low moans and gasps came from her mouth.

  Lyta dropped the weapon and slumped to the ground herself. It took her every effort to remain conscious and to simply breathe. Her side ached, the bruises from her beating by Security Officer Boggs seemed more sore and painful than before. Her head pounded, both from Ivanova’s attack and from her ordeal in breaking past the sleepers. She was certain that she was partially concussed. Her vision was swimming.

  After a while she was dimly aware of gentle hands shaking her. Marcus! was her first thought, but then she relived his death, remembering it in agonisingly slow motion. Then she thought about the security guards, and she was gripped by sheer panic. But then… but then…

  Her eyes opened almost dreamily and she found herself staring at the concerned face of a Narn. His red eyes seemed to peer into her very soul. Gently, he helped her up to a sitting position. She rested against him for a moment, allowing herself the hopeless illusion that he was Marcus, come back to life to be with her. Then reality intruded, as it always did.

  “Miss Alexander, my name is Ta’Lon,” the Narn said. “I have been sent here to help you and Marcus Cole…”

  “He’s dead,” she whispered. “He’s… dead.”

  “I know. I am sorry I arrived too late. We… we have to go. I have a shuttle that can take us away from here. Sooner or later people will discover what you have done here, and then you will be in trouble.”

  “Why… why come and help me?”

  “The one I work for believes you may be a great assistance to him. He has been told about your… silent companion.”

  He meant the Vorlon. She knew he meant the Vorlon. “I don’t care,” she whispered. “He couldn’t…” Kosh couldn’t save Marcus and he wouldn’t help her. She hoped to never hear his voice again. “I…”

  “Can you walk? I can carry you, but…”

  “No. I can walk. I just want to…”

  Lyta staggered to her feet and moved forward, haltingly and unsteadily, towards Marcus. She knelt down beside him. He was dead and his face was marked by the same grief and anger and confusion that had marked his whole life. Not even in death had he found peace.

  “You left me alone,” she said, almost accusingly. “You… left… me… alone… Oh, Marcus!” She began to cry, slow, halting tears. She simply leaned over his body, crying. She couldn’t think of anything else to say, she couldn’t think of all the things she should have told him, all the things they should have done…

  It didn’t make sense, but then life didn’t. All she knew was that she was alone again.

  “I’m ready,” she said, as she hobbled away from Marcus, throwing the bloodied pike aside. She never wanted to look at it again. She shot at glance at Ivanova. Impossibly, the Shadow agent was still alive, but much of her face was caved in, covered with blood. Her eyes were rolled up into her skull and she was whimpering softly, trembling and shaking. Lyta walked away. She didn’t… she couldn’t… she just wanted to be away from here.

  Ta’Lon did not need to carry her. She could carry herself. She always had before and she would have to again.

  Outside the door they both ran into General Hague.

  * * * * * * *

  For a thousand years the Grey Council had been the leaders of Minbar, the nine greatest of the Minbari, who led with wisdom and courage and grace. Formed by Valen at the end of the last Great War, the gathering of nine had ended centuries of bloody civil warring on Minbar. From then on, no Minbari would ever kill another. All of Minbar trusted and followed their nine leaders who inherited the legacy of Valen.

  So when did the Nine fall? The death of Dukhat? The bloody, genocidal war against the humans? The ascension of one as proud and as arrogant as Sinoval to Holy One? The moment when Delenn – perhaps their last hope – was declared Zha’valen? Or had the Council always been corrupted by darkness and that darkness had simply never been evident before?

  Regardless of where it began, it ended at the Battle of the Second Line.

  It is easy to speak of if only… If only Delenn had gone straight to the Hall of the Council and not wasted time talking with her clan… if only Sinoval had killed Deathwalker instead of exiling her… if only Sheridan had escaped the trap on Vega 7… if only wise Hedronn had spoken up against Sinoval’s ambition… if only Sinoval had had Sheridan freed a few moments earlier… if only Dukhat had reacted quicker… if only Delenn’s casting vote had been different…

  Dwelling on the past is largely futile, for it cannot be changed, but still, that does not stop anyone trying…

  When Delenn and Lennann arrived at the Hall of the Council it was to find the columns of light dead. They slowed and hesitated. There had been no acolytes on duty outside the Hall – an unprecedented event. Even when the Council was absent, the acolytes were always there. And the Council should not be absent. Yes, Sinoval had sent them away to meditate, but they had been recalled. This was wrong. This was very, very…

  Delenn stumbled in the darkness and had to sway to regain her balance. Her equilibrium was not ideal at the best of times since her change, but this was no accident. She had tripped over something.

  “Lights,” she called out. The nine columns of light appeared and Delenn saw what she had tripped over.

  “In Valen’s Name,” Lennann rasped. Delenn was silent. She could not think of any words to say to greet the sight of Satai Dulann’s body. Her throat had been crushed. Not far from Satai Dulann was Satai Matokh, a warrior… and another behind him, and another…

  Four of the Nine lay in the circle, their bodies twisted and broken. Almost half of the Grey Council ki
lled. In the centre of the circle was another, but he was not dead…

  Hedronn was kneeling, rasping angry prayers to Valen, prayers that went unheeded. Beside him was the staff of the Grey Council, the one Sinoval carried in his position as Holy One, the one he allowed Hedronn to carry in his absence. The staff was covered in blood.

  “Hedronn,” Delenn whispered, horrified. She had know him for many cycles. She had trusted in his wisdom and his clarity of thought. He had been stubborn, yes, but always wise. To see… this…

  “Hedronn.” He heard her and turned, and Delenn started. In his eyes… madness… a pure, intense, psychopathic madness. He scooped up the staff and charged forward, holding it over his head, issuing a roar of anger and hatred that Delenn would not have thought possible.

  Delenn remained transfixed and would doubtless have been killed had not Lennann acted, pulling her out of the way. Hedronn’s charge continued and he stumbled over Dulann’s body, crashing to the floor. He was weeping, harsh, angry, tragic tears.

  “Valen… forgive me… Valen… forgive…”

  “Alcohol,” said a quietly observant, half mocking voice. “Alcohol. Such a wonderful substance. Humans turn to it for comfort and as a rite of passage. Narns pride themselves on their alcoholic drinks, making them with a precision and love that not even decades of occupation could erase. The Centauri drink it almost as much as they breathe their air. The Minbari alone in the entire galaxy react to alcohol in this way. Homicidal paranoia. Murderous anger. It is refreshing to know that deep down, you are no better than the humans. Worse even.”

  “Who?” Lennann asked. “You… you did this. You…”

  The figure stepped forward and bowed deeply. “Warmaster Jha’dur of the Dilgar. Some call me Deathwalker.”

  “Why?” Lennann asked. “Why have you…?”

  “The name. They call me Deathwalker. Besides, I am merely fulfilling the prophecies. Valen said that the Council would be broken, did he not? And lo, it is broken. Four dead… sorry, five, if you include poor, dear Rathenn. Hedronn will doubtless kill himself when the alcohol I gave him wears off and he realises just what he has done. Sinoval… can wait, and Kalain will probably be more useful to me alive. Especially when word reaches him that the Grey Council was killed by a worker.”