The Other Half of my Soul addm-1

by Gareth D. Williams

  “Minbari do not kill Minbari,” Lennann whispered, horrified.

  “That is the saying, is it not? Unfortunately it appears that someone let a certain Centauri Ambassador know of events here, and word of this will reach Minbar soon. There is no Valen to help save you this time.”

  Lennann let out a long, wordless scream and charged forward. Deathwalker smiled, and drew her fighting pike. Sinoval was better at the pike than Deathwalker was, but Sinoval was better than everyone. Lennann had no weapon. He did not stand a chance.

  His body slumped to the floor, sightless eyes staring up into the light.

  Delenn backed away slowly and paused beside Matokh’s body. He would have a pike. He always carried his weapon, despite rulings to the contrary. Sure enough, it was hidden under his robes.

  Delenn had been trained well with the pike. Draal had been known to wield it from time to time, but it was Neroon, the only Minbari alive who could pose a match to Sinoval, who had taught her the art of wielding such a weapon. He had even given her his weapon, which had been given to him by Durhan – one of the fabled nine blades. That weapon was lost now. Sinoval probably had it. It was tainted anyway, having been wielded in murder by Susan Ivanova. Matokh’s might serve to avenge him.

  Deathwalker smiled.

  If only…

  * * * * * * *

  General William Hague had also had a high image of himself. A lofty, noble image. He served Earth and humanity. He had risen high. His record was impressive. His actions were noble.

  He was never certain of where it began. Jealousy of Captain Sheridan, for doing what he could not? Perhaps. Hatred of the Minbari for destroying Earth, for killing his wife and family? Almost certainly. Fear of what the Minbari would do when they came to Proxima 3? Yes. God, yes.

  He tried rationalising it to himself. What Ivanova had said had been correct. Lyta Alexander would die anyway without Shadow assistance. She would probably be executed for treason even if the Minbari didn’t destroy Proxima. What harm was there in letting Ivanova take her? What harm?

  Hague could justify it to himself as many times as he liked, but the fact remained that he knew in his heart that what he had done was wrong. Very, very wrong. He had betrayed everything he stood for, everything he set himself up to be. He had come here, down to Ivanova’s quarters, not to stop what was happening, but simply to be here. Simply to… to what? Perform penance? To listen as Ivanova killed Lyta?

  Instead he was staring at the one he had sent to her death. Slowly, he bowed his head, unable to think. He could see Lyta staring at him. She was still alive, then. Maybe… maybe what he had done hadn’t mattered then. Maybe…

  “Where… where is Ambassador… Ivanova?” he asked, slowly.

  “Inside,” Lyta replied. She was bruised, and limping, but she was still alive. That was good. That was… good.

  “Go!” Hague snapped. “I… Go… Leave here. We’re damned. We’re all damned.”

  He brushed past them and entered Ivanova’s quarters. He had a feeling that they would be leaving. He hoped… he just hoped that… that they would be… safe. That… they would…

  He looked around slowly. Ivanova was curled up into a foetal position, whimpering and crying out and covered with blood. A man’s body lay just opposite her. It was Marcus Cole, Sheridan’s – and later Ivanova’s – bodyguard. And elsewhere there were… two… things…

  Hague dropped to his knees. He wanted to cry, but there was no room for tears, no place for remorse, no time for anguish. There was only one thing to do. Only one thing he could do.

  He took out his PPG and placed it inside his mouth.

  What was one more body in the foundations of Golgotha?

  * * * * * * *

  And elsewhere there was death too. Death stalked the corridors of the Grey Council’s ship. Of the fabled Grey Council, only two lived. Each knew a little piece of what had happened. Sinoval knew of what Deathwalker was planning to do, but not how she was planning to do it. And Kalain had seen the results of what she had done, but not who had done it.

  He had seen Hedronn, lying alone in the darkness, surrounded by bodies. He could see his people outside, dying at the hands of the enemy, needing an order to retreat that would never come. He could see the Grey Council reduced to nothing, and his sole thought was one word.

  Starkiller.

  Kalain had seen the Starkiller’s furious assault over Mars and he had been afraid. His fear had let two members of the Grey Council die before the guns and bombs of the Babylon. He had seen the Starkiller on Epsilon 3, where they had fought hand to hand. Kalain had nearly won – would have won if it had not been for the interference of that damned Narn. He had learned the truth about Sheridan Starkiller – that he was just a man. A man who bled and hurt and died. Kalain’s anger turned inwards, focussed on himself rather than the Starkiller. He made a silent promise to Sinoval, to Valen and to himself that he would kill the Starkiller.

  But now he was too late. The Grey Council was broken and only one man could be responsible. The Starkiller. In his haste, in his anger, Kalain had missed every clue, and Deathwalker had let him, not knowing that if he succeeded, then her plans would be under threat as well. But she let him be. Anger was always a useful servant.

  And, lo and behold, the Starkiller was not in his cell. Neither was the Zha’valen whore who had let him escape last time. Kalain forgot everything else that he was and became a simple force of nature, a being who existed only to kill the Starkiller.

  And, soon enough, he did.

  Sheridan was with an acolyte – another traitor to Minbar. Yet another traitor. Did no one believe in Valen, in the Nine, in the One any more?

  Kalain killed the acolyte first. A blow to the base of the spine and then a killing strike to the neck.

  Sheridan staggered back, obviously trying to flee. He reached instinctively for his dishonourable human weapon, which was of course not there.

  Another weapon was. He extended the pike and Kalain’s eyes widened. He recognised the markings. One of Durhan’s nine. An Earther… the Starkiller wielded one of Durhan’s nine blades! Sacrilege left no word for it.

  Kalain gave a roar of anger and pain and grief and charged forward… There could be no mercy, and no Narns this time.

  * * * * * * *

  “Report?” Corwin ordered. He was discovering a hard lesson. Even the greatest of furies only lasts so long.

  “Hull integrity just over thirty percent. Jump engines down. Left broadsides exhausted. Right broadsides not far off. Forward and aft batteries off line.”

  “Any word from Ben Zayn, from the Narn ship, from Proxima, from anyone?”

  “Negative, sir.”

  Corwin sat back. “Well, I don’t suppose anyone gets to live forever, do you?”

  “I wouldn’t mind giving it a try,” muttered the lieutenant.

  Corwin couldn’t help but look at Alisa. The medical staff were too busy to remove her body, and so he left it where it was. Death was no respecter of dignity. “We all would,” he said softly.

  “Hold on,” barked the lieutenant. “There’s a jump gate opening. A lot of jump gates opening.”

  Corwin leapt to his feet. “More Minbari?” Even they were preferable to those Shadows.

  “No. They’re… Oh, my God.”

  “On screen.”

  Corwin looked at the sight before him. “What do those ships look like to you, lieutenant?”

  “I’m not sure, sir, but if I had to… I’d say they were Vorlon ships.”

  “I’d say you were right.”

  Chapter 7

  Captain John Sheridan knew all about hatred. He had been immersed too deeply in that particular emotion for his own comfort. He remembered the pure hatred he felt after his return, all too late, to Earth after the Minbari were finished. He remembered transferring that hatred to rage as he attacked the Minbari over Mars. He remembered the hatred he felt after his daughter Elizabeth – one of the most shining elements in his
life – had been killed during the bombing of Orion. He remembered transferring that hatred to grief and anger, both so profound that he shut out his wife and left her to collapse into her own private abyss.

  Captain John Sheridan had lived with hatred for so long. Recognising the hatred in the eyes of Satai Kalain was not difficult.

  Sheridan and Kalain had met before, on the dying world of Epsilon 3. They had fought and eventually been pulled apart by the Narn prophet and visionary G’Kar, who had taken control of the ancient mysteries that lay within the planet. G’Kar was not here now, and Sheridan did not have his PPG, just a Minbari fighting pike. A weapon he had little idea how to use.

  Sheridan understood little about Minbari culture and myths and the name Durhan was largely unfamiliar to him. He only knew that the weapon had once belonged to Satai Delenn, who had been given it in love by the warrior Neroon. It had been taken from Delenn by the Shadow agent Susan Ivanova who had wielded it for countless years until two different time streams had crossed on board the space station Babylon 4. Delenn had taken it back and given it to Sheridan, exactly as she had been given it by Neroon.

  Kalain did understand Minbari culture and myths, and he recognised a blade like that when he saw one. Fabled across the whole of the Minbari Federation, Durhan’s last great work before embarking on his solitary mission to the sea of stars, the nine blades had been given to those he deemed most suitable. Sinoval, current Holy One, had received one, as had the great Shai Alyt Branmer and his aide – and Durhan’s pupil – Neroon. Some had been lost since Durhan had made them, but enough remained of his legacy.

  It said a lot that such a weapon was wielded by a human, one who had done more to threaten the Minbari race than any other, one to whom the Minbari gave the name Starkiller.

  Kalain struck forward, aiming fast blows at Sheridan’s midriff and legs. Sheridan parried them awkwardly and stepped back. He still did not know exactly what he was doing, but how much could there be to it, he thought. Long heavy object. Your opponent. Hit the one with the other. There. Sounded simple enough.

  Except that your opponent tended to try and stop you hitting him with the long, heavy object. After that it was a bit of a mystery. Hopefully, he would get another go.

  Kalain rushed in for another attack. Sheridan managed to parry the first few blows and step out of the reach of the others. He even managed to attempt a vague and weak counterattack, easily parried by Kalain.

  Pike crashed against pike, Kalain not letting up, driven by his hatred and his fury and his shame. Once before, over Mars, he had cowered before the Starkiller’s approach, and the Grey Council, whom he had been set to guard, had paid the price. He would not let himself be so dishonoured again, even if he had to commit a greater dishonour to do so.

  Pike against pike. Charge against careful retreat. Blood against blood.

  Blood calls out for blood.

  For the Dralaphi, for Shakiri and Shakat and Nur. For the Emphili and the Dogato. For Draal and for all of those who had fallen beneath Sheridan’s hand…

  Blood calls out for blood. Kalain’s called out for Sheridan’s.

  Valen had prophesied that the Minbari would unite with the other half of their soul in a war against the common enemy. No one could have suspected that the other half of their soul would be the humans who were even now locked in combat with the Minbari, or that the two were uniting in blood, destroying each other in hatred and death.

  Kalain did not care. Neither did Sheridan.

  Neither cared about anything except for victory… and death.

  * * * * * * *

  There was death aplenty in the ship of the Grey Council at the Battle of the Second Line. The Grey Council, which had stood for a millennium as keeper of Valen’s prophecies, wisdom and legacy… the Grey Council was dead. Six of the Nine lay dead. Rathenn and Lennann of the religious caste killed by the being known as Deathwalker. Four others slain by one of their own – Hedronn of the workers – driven insane by alcohol given to him by Deathwalker. Hedronn himself was hovering between sanity and madness, unable to comprehend what he had done, unable to understand the enormity of what he had been driven to. Their leader, Sinoval, was missing, and Kalain was in battle with the Starkiller.

  The Hall of the Grey Council was now occupied only by the dead, and by two who should be dead. There was Warmaster Jha’dur of the Dilgar, Deathwalker, who lived only by virtue of her immortality serum, her life bought by the deaths of countless others. And there was Delenn, formerly of the Grey Council, now named Zha’valen by that very Council. Considered dead to her people, none of whom could speak to her, speak her name, look at her…

  Minbar had fallen, its leaders dead, its fleet destroyed, its confidence broken. Outside, the Minbari fleet and the Rangers were fighting and dying, not having been given the order to retreat because there was none to give that order. Under Deathwalker’s influence, the fleet would be destroyed. Delenn could not give that order.

  The two were fighting then, not for any concrete benefit, but because they had stepped too far for them not to fight. Delenn was maddened by the death all around her, gripped by a terrible, terrible sadness, maddened by the changes in her body that she neither comprehended nor recognised. She was acting from pure willpower, pure determination not to let the deaths of Lennann and Rathenn and all the Council go unnoted and unremarked.

  Jha’dur… she was fighting because it was all she knew. From birth she had been taught that the Dilgar were the superior people. Blessed with greater intelligence, greater strength, greater genius than all the other races, it was only natural to exploit them, to use them for the good of her people. Last of her race, Jha’dur was determined not to let them go unnoticed and unremembered. Humanity would be her monument to the Dilgar. She had set them on the right path and the countless deaths of Minbari here at the Second Line, they would be the foundation that would take humanity to depths of terror and death that not even the Dilgar had reached.

  Jha’dur and Delenn were nowhere near as unevenly matched as Sheridan and Kalain. Both had been trained well. Delenn by her love Neroon, Jha’dur by the greatest warriors in the Wind Swords clan. Both knew how to wield the weapon, but Jha’dur revelled in death. She was fit and competent and unafraid. Delenn was still a stranger in her own body, uncertain and hesitant. She had just seen friends die at the hand of one of their own number.

  Delenn stumbled over Matokh’s body and it took her a moment to right herself. While she did, Deathwalker simply waited and smiled.

  “Why do you do this?” Jha’dur asked. “Why fight? What are you fighting for? Your people are doomed, dying… your precious Grey Council broken. You are outcast, Zha’valen… You have nothing to fight for.”

  “I do,” she replied slowly. “I do.” Her breathing was harsh. Her ribs hurt and her muscles ached, and the pain behind her eyes was almost blinding.

  “What? Tell me.”

  “I fight… because it is right… because… we must never yield, never give in to the Darkness. When we meekly accept our fall, that is when we are truly lost. There must always be hope. Without it we are nothing.”

  “I once heard something. An old saying. ’A man without hope is a man without fear.’ You cling to your little hopes, aspirations and dreams. They will never come to pass. You will die here, alone, forgotten and unremembered. No one will care. No one will…”

  Jha’dur suddenly started and looked up. “What?” She looked around her, a look of… almost terror on her face. “No,” she breathed. “Display!” Around them the whole display of the battle appeared. Delenn could only assume that Deathwalker had arranged to have it turned off while she killed the Grey Council. She had gone to great effort to blame the worker caste for the tragedy. That could not be achieved if anyone else knew the truth. Delenn did not matter. She would never be believed…

  Delenn also looked around. The great Minbari fleet now seemed such a small thing, hemmed in and surrounded by advancing Shadow ships. She could see
a human ship – the Babylon – attacking the enemy, but even with their help, the Minbari seemed threatened, outnumbered… lost…

  Except that they were not alone any longer.

  All around them jump gates were opening and out were pouring huge mottled ships, green and red and golden. The Shadows were hesitating, doubtful about this new enemy. Delenn smiled.

  “Vorlons!” Jha’dur spat. “This isn’t right! This isn’t by the rules! This…”

  “They have come to help us,” Delenn said. “We are not as alone as you might think.”

  “And what do you know? You’re just a little puppet for them. You had one once, didn’t you? Inside your head. It told you all the right things, set you on this path…” Jha’dur shook her head. “You know nothing. You really know nothing at all. I almost pity you.”

  “You are afraid,” Delenn pointed out. “You have seen that your time is over. We are not as doomed as you say. There is always hope.”

  “You’re deluded! A dreamer, playing with lives as if they’re your own private little toys. You have no idea of what you do.”

  “And you do?”

  “I know life and I know death…”

  “And how to twist the one to the other? You know how to destroy happiness and bring chaos. I pity you. You are insane and you are alone, and what you have done today proves it.”

  “You pity me?” Jha’dur’s smile widened. “You? You are just a puppet. You don’t even understand the game. You don’t even care. You will continue to serve them blindly until they decide to have you killed. What is your saying, the one you prate out so nobly whenever you have to get your hands stained with blood?

  “’Some must be sacrificed if all are to be saved.’ You were sacrificed. How does that make you feel? When you are the victim?”

  “I will gladly give my life for the good of my people.”