From: "Luke McCallin" <woggo@bih.net.ba>
Subject: New Babylon 5 story
Date: Sun, 17 Oct 1999 23:52:34 +00


Dear fellow Babylon 5 fans!
I would like to say a few words before I commend this, my first story 
posted to the site, to you. The first time I saw Babylon 5, I was in 
university digs, and I had just sat down at the table with a cup of tea 
and the paper when Points of Departure started on the TV. I remember 
being transfixed by the music and the shot of the Agamemnon rotating 
against space, and I have been transfixed ever since. Most of this story 
was written in the autumn of 1996. I had just finished university and 
was working in Geneva. The second season had just ended and, faced with 
an agonising wait until season three, and having subscribed to and 
enjoyed the B5 fan fiction, I decided to try my own hand at a story. 
Before it was finished, I left Geneva to work for the UN in Chechnya, 
then Mali, and then in Bosnia, where I still am. Babylon 5 remained a 
constant interest (how could it not?) although months would go by 
without my seeing an episode or knowing what was going on. The story 
followed me, all but finished, but something, I don't know what, held me 
back from posting it on the fan fiction site.

I saw the final episode just the other night. I cried buckets, seeing 
the characters that I had followed for more than five years change or 
die or fade away. I think the worst of it for me was watching JMS turn 
out the lights! And then I knew that it was time to post the story. So 
here it is. It is set at the end of season two, and in it I have tried 
to reflect what I saw in Babylon 5 at that time. For me, although I love 
the show, it has never been quite as good as it was towards the end of 
season two. It had such a sense of myth and legend about it, so much of 
the best traditions of high fantasy and good science fiction mixed 
together, and a terrible sense of impending menace. For me, that got 
lost somewhere along the line, and the Shadows did not seem quite so 
terrible after they emerged into the light. But, still, what a story!

I wanted to write something which captured those tones of myth and 
chivalry, the clash of good and evil. At the time I wrote it, a lot of 
the story was pure speculation. I had never seen the Minbari capital, 
nor did I have any idea what the Rangers were. I could only guess at 
what Sinclair's fate on Minbar was. The ancient war between the Shadows 
and the First Ones I rendered in terms of legend, imagining it as a 
cycle of neverending conflict, with first one, then the other holding 
the whip. A lot of it is now redundant, my ideas about the One and the 
Rangers are especially somewhat antiquated. But some of it still rings 
true, especially the parts about the rules of conflict between the 
Shadows and the Vorlons. I think that you'll enjoy it anyway!

I have sent the first part. If you all like it, then I'll send the rest. 
There is also a second story, set at around the same time. Depending on 
how things go, I'll post that one too. I would really appreciate 
feedback from those of you who want to give it. You can contact me at 
woggo@bih.net.ba

Enjoy!

All the best

Luke McCallin

Disclaimer: Babylon 5 and its associated characters are the property of J. Michael Straczynski, Warner Bros and TNT. All else belongs to Luke McCallin.


A CLOAK OF STONE
By Luke McCallin

This cloak of stone has weighed us down
through a thousand years of pain.
Through a thousand years of penance served,
a thousand years of shame

The sun always set fast over the Minbari capital. Surrounded by a ring of mountains, the sun would rim the snow capped peaks in fiery splendour before sinking below their ancient, impassable ramparts. And as it set, a new sun seemed to rise from the darkened bowl of the valley where the crystal towers and domes and halls of the city began to glow with their own light, in gentle hues of white, gold, green and blue. It was a sight that Ambassador Sinclair never missed.

From his office at the top of the embassy tower, Sinclair could look out across the crystal wonderland that was Yedor to the great peak of Komdorenn, the Cloud-dancer, to where the clouds that wreathed the peak eternally shone in a rose coloured nimbus. It was a sight to gladden anyone's heart, to bring out the poet that lay within. Yet however much the sight always lifted his spirits, today it failed, and it could not distract him from the urgent whispers behind him. Turning away from the window, he walked back to his desk, and to the four who waited for him. Three of them fell silent as he returned, bringing a wry smile to the Ambassador's face. Three of them were Minbari, the fourth a human. It was the human who spoke first.

'I suppose that there is nothing more we can do to dissuade you from this?'

Sinclair shook his head. 'I'm afraid not, Timothy.'

His deputy, who oversaw the day to day running of the embassy and the tiny human staff that the Minbari permitted, shook his head as well, the small Nigerian muttering under his breath in his native Hausa. Sinclair blessed the day that the little man had arrived, blessed as well the day that he had decided to take Abujolo into his confidence. The strain of being at the same time the Ambassador for the Alliance and the head of the Rangers was more than any one man could take. Abujolo covered for him seamlessly, such that Sinclair did not know what he would do without him. One of the Minbari spoke next. 'For once, I agree with Mr. Abujolo. It is a foolish thing to do. It is needless.' Swathed in the rich robes of a high ranking member of the religious caste, Alathenn's face carried huge dignity, his voice was measured wisdom itself. Sinclair was unsure just how high Alathenn's rank was. He suspected it went as far as the Grey Council itself. Abujolo scowled at Alathenn, and Sinclair smiled wryly again. The two saw eye to eye on hardly anything. The Ambassador turned to the second Minbari who sat in front of the desk, and they shared a smile. Almost of their own volition, Sinclair's eyes sought out the fourth person. As usual, Imindor was there, in a corner, in the shadows, where the light from the lamp did not quite reach, and so still that your eyes almost passed over and by. Eyes glinted from where Imindor sat, watching Sinclair. Always Sinclair. As always, slightly unnerved by Imindor's brooding intensity, Sinclair turned back to the three before him, all silent now. 

'I have listened to what you all have to say, and all of it has merit. Timothy, Alathenn, I am well aware of the dangers inherent in this, but I cannot stay here, swathed in cotton wool.' The two Minbari frowned at the human metaphor. 'I need to see who it is that I am leading, who it is who has pledged their lives to this cause. I know that most of them are Minbari, but I know as well that more and more are human. However,' and at this he addressed the two Minbari, 'you will not let any of the humans onto Minbar, save one at a time. So I know none of them, or precious few. That has to change, as much for them as for me.' He paused. 'And there is something wrong. I know it, and you know it. This,' he gestured at the screen on his desk, 'is only the latest in a long line of setbacks, of disappointments and frustrations, and deaths.' He turned back to the screen, and scanned the report's headlines again. A Ranger training camp destroyed. Another Ranger killed on one of the Non-Aligned Worlds, a second killed on Polastas, a Centauri colony on the edge of the old Narn frontier, a third on Earth, a fourth returned insane from a mission to Mars. The casualties were getting heavy, and this had been going on for several months now. The setbacks, the recruits that did not make it, the leads that went nowhere, the deaf ears that were still turned to his cause could all be dealt with. It was the deaths. They were coming too frequently. Morale was slumping, plans were coming apart, and no one could tell if it was accident behind these deaths, an unfortunate mix of fate and circumstance, or if there was a focused malice behind it all. As much as evidence pointed to the former, Sinclair feared the latter.

'I still fail to see just what your visiting this Ranger base will accomplish,' said Alathenn.

'Because,' Sinclair sighed, pausing for thought, 'it is my way, to lead from the front, and because I cannot ask these people to fight for a leader they have never seen, and for a cause at times so seemingly tenuous that even your people,' he looked at Alathenn, 'have trouble believing in it.' Then his face took on a far more serious cast. 'You call me the One, you have me lead the Rangers, you tell me things about myself that I still do not believe, but the Rangers need something more than that, especially the humans among them. More than names and titles.' He looked away, then smiled again. 'Call it a pep talk.'

Abujolo groaned again, shaking his head and muttering. Alathenn frowned enquiringly.

'A pep talk is a human expression for words or a speech of encouragement.' It was the Minbari, heretofore silent, who answered. Dressed in religious robes, the brooch of a Ranger was pinned to his breast. He smiled. 'I myself cannot help but think that it would be a good thing for the Ambassador to go to the field, to see things for himself, and to meet some of those who have pledged themselves to the Light. And as second in command of the Rangers, I also cannot help but think that it would do great things for morale. Both the Rangers' and the Ambassador's.'

Sinclair smiled while Abujolo grunted disparagingly again. 

'Then it is settled,' said Sinclair. 'I will visit the Ranger base on Chamarra in two days time. If it goes well, then I will try and visit some of the others. I leave all questions of security to you, Kallassier,' indicating his second in command, 'and to you, Imindor,' looking towards the dark corner where the fourth person sat. 'You, Timothy, will have to cover for me among the diplomatic community here. Attend what you can, beg off the rest. If anyone asks, tell them anything. Tell them I'm sick, fasting, visiting the south, whatever.' 

Abujolo nodded glumly. 'No doubt that Centauri Ambassador will badger me incessantly. I shall probably have Neroon breaking down your door as well.'

Alathenn and Kallassier laughed at that. There was even a chuckle from Imindor. Laughing with them, Sinclair ended the meeting. He too had preparations to make, and the night was getting on. Kallassier was the last to leave. 'Sleep well, and dream, Sa'Shy Alyt,' he said as he left. Sinclair was, as always, profoundly moved by the honorific, one of the highest in Minbari esteem, and he bowed to the tall Ranger. The door closed, and it was just him and Imindor.

Sinclair walked over to the drinks cabinet, poured himself a whiskey, and returned to the window that made up a wall of his office. Outside, Yedor shone gently. The flanks of the two mountains to either side of Komdorenn, called Cloud-dancers' Maidens, were lined with the last of the day's light. The last of the colour on the undersides of the clouds that wreathed the vast peak was leaching away into the coming night. A sip, and he turned back into the room. 'You were very quiet, Imindor. Had you nothing to say?'

There was silence from the corner, then the figure rose, and flowed into the light, dressed in the black robes of a warrior, but with no clan ornaments or markings. Beneath the ritually carved headbone, the lines of her face were angular and distinct. Her lips were full, almost pouting, but her eyes were like chips of ice, the eyes of a huntress. As always to Sinclair, she had the air of the severe beauty of a bird of prey, and all the grace of a killing dive.

'If I had had anything to say, I would have said it.' She came to stand beside him at the window, tall and straight and strong as a spear, looking out as he looked at her.

'I cannot help but take your silence for disapproval,' said Sinclair. Her soft profile was made even softer by the crystal light from outside the window.

'Do not seek to make human comparisons fit me, Sinclair.' Still she did not look at him. 'They will not work.'

'But do you approve?'

'Is that important?'

'To me, yes,' said Sinclair, somewhat flustered. 'You are the captain of my guard, of course your opinion matters.'

'Then, in my opinion, it is too dangerous. It is too dangerous for you to leave Minbar. In light of the reports you have been receiving, I think that you are taking a grave risk going to Chamarra.' She turned that hard, silken profile towards him. 'Is that what you wanted to hear?'

Somewhat mollified, Sinclair sipped again from his glass.

'Will it stop you?'

'No,' replied Sinclair, 'No, I suppose not.'

'No,' said Imindor. She looked back out at the city. 'However, we are sworn to you. We are the Sadaelath, the Heartguard. Our lives are yours...'

'Stop that,' said Sinclair, frowning into his glass. Imindor continued as though he had said nothing.

'...Your commands are as set in stone. Where you lead, so we will follow...'

'Dammit! Stop that!' hissed Sinclair. Imindor gazed at him, her expression unreadable. 'I didn't ask for you, I didn't ask for this honour. I didn't ask for Valen's guard. What could have made things any worse for me? I...' he stopped, at a loss for words. She always did this to him, left him bereft of anything to say. Her gaze was implacable, unreadable. Again, the image of a bird of prey came to him - aloof, unblinking, untameable. She spoke softly, as if trying to explain something to a child.

'The Council has named you Sa'Shy Alyt, even if they have not done so openly. Therefore you are ours to ward. You do not have to worry whether we like you or respect you. We are sworn to you, with oaths graven into our very bones...'

'Sworn to me or to the one who is the Sa'Shy Alyt?' interrupted Sinclair.

Imindor's eyes widened, the iris' moving in opposite directions and back again, a Minbari gesture that he had learnt to read as annoyance. 'It does not matter. Where you lead, we will follow, so long as there is breath in our bodies.'

She stopped there, and they both stared out at Yedor. After a while, she stirred herself. 'I must go now, I have duties,' she said softly.

Sinclair nodded. 'Of course.'

She walked to the door, and turned. She touched her right hand to her chest, to her heart, and to her forehead. 'With body, heart and soul, honour to serve,' she said gravely. Sinclair bowed his head to her.

'Goodnight, Imindor.'

'Goodnight, Sa'Shy. Sleep well and wake.' And then she was gone through the door, her robes a whisper of black in her wake. Sinclair knew that there would be two Sadaelathi on the other side, black garbed and still as statues.

Sinclair turned back to the window. For a while, he watched as the first stars began to shine in the circle of sky above the mountains, then sat at his desk. There was a framed picture of Catherine on it. He stared at it for a long time, but it was not Catherine he thought of.

* * * * *

Chamarra was a planet in a star system on the edge of the Minbari Federation, a long way from anywhere, and far off the well travelled star lanes. It had an erratic orbit around its sun, and a severe wobble to its axis, giving it a wide range of climactic extremes, extremes that made it an excellent training site. A planetwide jungle girdled the equator, severe mountain ranges banded the jungle to north and south. Gravity was heavy. Ceded to the Rangers by the Grey Council, there was an old military base on the planet, a cluster of composite buildings and training ranges, long out of use by the Night Walkers clan. It was one of the first Ranger bases opened, and one of the most successful.

The heavy cruiser Gilratha opened a jump point into normal space twenty thousand kilometres out from Chamarra. Its blue hull shimmered as it slid from the jump point which collapsed to a bright point, then vanished. The Gilratha approached the planet with its gunports open, but not as a sign of respect.

On the bridge, the captain turned from one of his consoles to the figure who sat in the place of honour on the dais. 'We will be in orbit shortly, Ambassador.' The captain's tone was strictly formal. He was warrior caste. He had no time for humans, and it seemed he had less time for the two black robed Sadaelathi that flanked Sinclair. Imindor he had barely acknowledged the entire jump from Minbar. Perhaps the Shy Alyt felt insulted that Sinclair needed guarding, even on the bridge of his ship. Sinclair, for one, was strangely comforted by their presence. It was not always the case - more often than not they annoyed him, reminders of just how much there was still to learn about the Minbari, and how many obstacles there still were in his path. Sinclair had noticed the hostility, the contempt even, that the warrior caste seemed to hold towards the Sadaelath. Imindor would not speak of it, although he had asked her several times. Attempts to raise the point with Alathenn and others had met with polite obfuscation to cold refusals to answer. Neroon had laughed in his face, a cold, mocking laughter. Still, it was neither here nor there. Just another mystery among many with the Minbari.

Sinclair nodded his acknowledgement to the Shy Alyt. 'If you would open a secure channel to the base, I would appreciate it if you would patch it through to my console.'

'Of course, Ambassador.' The captain turned away again, passing orders softly to one of the crew. Moments later he straightened and turned back to Sinclair. 'We have a channel to the base now, Ambassador. If you would please activate your console.'

Sinclair turned on the comm pad set into the arm of the chair. He shifted slightly as he did so. The chair had not been built with a human in mind, and the differences, even the small ones, tended to show up over a prolonged period in it. The screen lightened from black to show the face of a bearded man, perhaps in his late forties, staring back out. A frown creased the man's forehead, the dark eyes showed perhaps the slightest hint of trepidation, which was only to be expected having a Minbari battleship hail you. The frown deepened as the man realised there was a human on the bridge of the ship, and there was a glint of something in his eyes. Recognition perhaps? It was the bearded man who spoke first.

'This is Supervisor Trafford of the Junio Mineral Company to Minbari cruiser Gilratha. What may we do for you?'

Sinclair recognised the cover story, a guise for the Rangers to explain their presence on the planet to any ship that might come upon them. Ostensibly, Junio Minerals was prospecting on the planet for certain rare metals in a joint venture with the Minbari government. Sinclair had set up the cover story himself with the connivance of certain highly placed individuals, as well as others for the Ranger bases scattered throughout known space.

'Supervisor Trafford, this is merely a courtesy call on behalf of the Minbari government, to see how things are coming along,' Sinclair replied. There was a weight of unspoken meaning in his words.

Trafford seemed to lean into the screen, eyes narrowing, hardening. 'Then that would make you the neighbourhood enforcer?'

Sinclair too leaned towards his screen. 'Call me the tax man.'

There was no lessening of the tension Sinclair thought he could read in Trafford. The bearded man leaned back away from his screen. 'Ranger One,' he breathed. Sinclair nodded, once. Trafford appeared to collect himself. 'Ranger Adrian Trafford. It's an honour, sir. To what do we owe it?' His eyes remained hard though.

'To nothing in particular. I thought it was time I saw things for myself,' answered Sinclair. 'And Chamarra is the nearest Ranger base to Minbar. I would like to speak with Shy Alyt Gerinen please.'

Trafford nodded, and looked offscreen for a moment. 'I'm sorry, sir. He is unavailable at the moment, as is Yahaya Maroofi, the second in command. It would have been nice to have had some warning, sir. That way we could have prepared something for you. As it is...' he paused, and his face crinkled suddenly into a self-depreciating grin. 'Well, you'll see for yourself soon enough, sir. Do you have an ETA for us?'

Sinclair glanced at the Shy Alyt. The captain in turn glanced at a console, then back at Sinclair. 'Eleven and seven saan,' he said. Sinclair nodded his thanks, calculating in his head, and  turned back to the screen.

'Roughly twenty minutes, Trafford.'

Trafford glanced offscreen again, then back. 'Very well, sir. We'll be expecting you. Chamarra out.' The screen went dark. 

Sinclair leaned back in his chair, lips pursed. There was something about Trafford, something that Sinclair could not quite put a finger on. Something distant. That was it. A distance in him, in his speech. But then again, it was the first time they had spoken, and Sinclair had a feeling that all Rangers were somehow different, inside. And differences inside would always show up. Still... Beside him, the two Sadaelathi stirred slightly, reading Sinclair's doubt. Their perceptiveness never failed to amaze him, and it was all the more astonishing in that he was not even Minbari, yet they could still read his emotions well.

'Is everything well, Sa'Shy Alyt?' one asked, a slightly built male named Esiderine.

Sinclair breathed deeply and softly. 'Yes, I think so.' He rose from his seat, the captain standing to attention as he did so. 'Would you please prepare a shuttle for me, to be ready as soon as possible?' The captain closed his eyes, tilting his head backwards in the gesture Sinclair had learnt to read as acceptance.

'How many will be going with you, Ambassador?' asked the Shy Alyt. His face tightened suddenly, eyes looking over Sinclair's shoulder.

'There will be sixteen going with the Ambassador.'

Sinclair had no chance to answer. That came from behind him, where Imindor had suddenly arrived on the bridge, as if from nowhere. He turned round to look at her. She  was dressed in a tight black suit of what Sinclair knew to be impact armour, fighting gloves on both hands, and a pistol holstered on a belt festooned with equipment. She gestured to the other two Sadaelathi, and they melted from the bridge. Sixteen was as many Sadaelathi as Imindor had brought with them. 'The whole guard, Imindor? Is that necessary?' asked Sinclair quietly.

'Yes,' she said simply. She turned to the captain. Their gaze could almost have struck sparks. She spoke a short phrase in a dialect Sinclair did not recognise. The Shy Alyt replied in kind, and then Imindor was gesturing for Sinclair to proceed her. She took his arm as they walked off the bridge, and Sinclair felt the captain's gaze all the way.

Imindor led him swiftly through the white hallways of the Gilratha to his staterooms. The door slid back to reveal two Sadaelathi, black armoured like Imindor, waiting by the low divan that stretched across one side of the room.

'Quickly,' said Imindor, 'remove your outer robes.'

'What?!' said Sinclair, not a little taken aback. That look came over her face again, and he forestalled anything that she had to say with a raised hand. 'OK, OK, whatever you say.' When not performing official functions which required his uniform or Earth dress, Sinclair had taken to wearing Minbari robes. He found them comfortable and light, and it was in keeping with his identity among the Minbari. He shrugged of the blue outer robes, the silken material slithering to the floor, leaving him standing in the one piece undersuit.

Sinclair could have sworn that there was more than a hint of a smile on Imindor's face as she said, 'Remove that too.'

He gave her a suffering look that she ignored, before he undid the clasps and stepped out of it, leaving him standing in his underclothes. The two Sadaelathi stepped forward, one holding a folded garment, the other a vial of what seemed to be oil. The second stepped behind Sinclair, and poured some of the oil over his back, rubbing it in swiftly, moving over his arms and legs, then turning to the front and repeating the process. Once it was done, the first one stepped forward, holding the garment by its shoulders, and Sinclair saw that it was a suit of impact armour like their own, only beige in colour. Sinclair stepped into it as the Sadaelathi held it out, and he immediately saw the point of the oil. The suit fitted like a second skin, sliding up over his body, its passage eased by the oil to clasp at his neck with a magnetic seal. A pair of light boots went on his feet, then Imindor held out his blue outer robes.

'Put these back on over it.' Sinclair shrugged into the robes, and then Imindor took him by the arm again, leading him through the corridors of the ship followed by the two Sadaelathi. A lift took them down several decks, and opened onto a brightly lit hangar bay where the flowing green lines of an interorbital shuttle waited for them. Imindor escorted him across the bay and into the craft, where the rest of the Sadaelathi, black armoured all, were already waiting and had one of the other warriors ensure that he was safely strapped into a seat. Then she went forward into the cockpit to speak to the pilot. Imindor finished what she was saying, and came back into the cabin. She cast an eye around at the warriors, before settling into the empty seat next to Sinclair and tightening her belts.

There was a barely perceptible lurch as the shuttle got under way, a dip in Sinclair's stomach, then nothing as the shuttle accelerated away from the Gilratha. No one said anything in the passenger bay, there was no sound except for the pilot as he talked with the cruiser. The atmosphere in the cabin was thick though. Sinclair did not really know why. Trafford had seemed a little strange, of that there was no doubt. Yet the Sadaelathi seemed to be tense beyond reason. Sinclair glanced at Imindor, but she was staring straight ahead, her mouth moving slightly. She seemed to be praying. Perhaps it was the first time that they might be facing action at his side that was causing their tension. It might be something else, something to do with their history. Sinclair faced forward again, and resolved to get some answers out of Imindor, or somebody, when they got back to Minbar.

The shuttle jolted as it hit atmosphere. For a few minutes, it shook in the disturbance caused by its passage, then the ride smoothed out again. Sinclair chewed his lip, thinking of what he would say to the Rangers but curiously, nothing would come to him. The hum and throb of the engines lulled and relaxed him and, as there were no windows and no view screens, it came as something of a surprise when the shuttle suddenly decelerated, and banked to the right, levelled out, and touched down with a thud. Sinclair felt a sudden nervousness that he tried to quench. There was a stir of movement and the metallic clicks of seatbelts being released as the Sadaelathi rose from their seats. Sinclair rose at the same time as Imindor. She made her way over to the shuttle's hatch, and spoke to one of the Sadaelathi. The warrior punched the release mechanism on the hatch and, with a hiss of escaping air, the door whined down, forming a ramp to the ground. A gentle wash of warm air blew into the cabin, and with it the sound, faint but clear, of trees rustling in the wind. A rectangle of daylight grew across the wall opposite the opening door, and into it stepped Imindor, her black armour growing a nimbus of gold. She looked out for a moment, then looked back in at the Sadaelathi. It seemed an unspoken command passed between them for, as she stepped out into the light, four of the Sadaelathi activated a device set into the cowling on their fighting gloves and shimmered from sight. Sinclair blinked in surprise. He had seen such a thing only once before, on Babylon 5, but it seemed the Minbari had some kind of personal cloaking device as well. 

Save for one who waited by the hatch looking out, the other ten filed out after Imindor, the cloaked ones mixed in with them. Sinclair made to follow but the Sadaelathi by the hatch motioned him to wait. Then he received a signal from outside, and turned back to Sinclair.

'They are ready for you now, Sa'Shy Alyt,' said the warrior.

Sinclair stepped up to the hatch. Chamarra camp was spread out before him, a large, circular clearing in the jungle under a sky tinged green. A broad expanse of cleared ground stretched out before him. Directly in front, perhaps a hundred yards away, was a long, low building of some featureless brown composite. A similar building stood further beyond it to the right, a third away to the left. What looked like a minehead stood by the third building. Various pieces of equipment stood against the three buildings, several vehicles were parked on a bare patch of ground, and dirt tracks criss-crossed the compound and curved around the buildings towards the jungle that Sinclair could see surrounded the camp on all sides. Away in the distance, a range of mountains marched jaggedly across the horizon.

All that he took in in a single glance, before lowering his gaze to the company assembled before the shuttle. The Sadaelathi were spread out in a crescent to either side of the ramp facing a group of fifteen humans dressed in a variety of overalls and jumpsuits that had nothing in common save an air of grubbiness and wear. Six of them were women, and all of them had an air about them, a hard, feral air, standing facing the line of black armoured Minbari. Tension crackled in the space between the two groups. Standing tall and bulking larger than anyone there, Trafford stood at the centre of the human line looking up at Sinclair as he stood framed in the hatch. It was a point of contact, and Sinclair seized it. His face broke into a smile, and he started down the ramp towards the Rangers, stepping around Imindor who waited at the bottom. As he moved, the eyes of some of the Rangers suddenly swivelled to follow him.

He heard Imindor hiss to herself as he stepped round her, and felt her shadowing him to his right as he walked up to Trafford. He held out his hand and widened his smile.

'Ranger Trafford, I presume?' he said.

The big man nodded slowly, as if waking from a dream, and held out his own hand as a smile broke across his craggy face. 'Ranger One. It is an honour, sir. A great honour.' Trafford's hand was very cold through the thick calluses on his palm as he gripped Sinclair's hand and shook it firmly.

That seemed to break the ice among the Rangers, for all at once the tension seemed to go out of them and they relaxed, crowding and clustering around Sinclair and Trafford. Imindor flashed a signal with her right hand and two Sadaelathi drew up to her, bracketing Sinclair to either side and behind. A hot burst of annoyance ran through him and he was tempted to countermand her order but the press of Rangers captured his attention, and he focused on them.

They were all of a kind, faces lean, some even gaunt, but the flush of health and hard exercise coloured their cheeks. Their names came from all over Earth and the Colonies. No two were alike in background or accent. Their eyes, though, all bore that same curious look as Trafford's, and they lined up to greet him, pressing his hand between their own, speaking quietly and enthusiastically, or not at all

The greetings over with, a small space cleared around Trafford and Sinclair as the Rangers drew back a little. Their eyes returned to the crescent of Sadaelathi, all save Trafford, who stared fixedly at Sinclair. He was the first to speak.

'You have met us,' he gestured towards the Minbari. 'Now perhaps you would tell us who they are.'

Sinclair turned to Imindor. 'This is the captain of my bodyguard, Kaan Alyt Imindor, commander of the Sadaelathi.' Trafford's eyes shifted, just the tiniest twitch, but both Sinclair and Imindor saw the glint of recognition. For a single moment, Sinclair's heart pumped ice. That stone hard gaze of hers went even harder, and Sinclair prayed furiously that she would overlook the fact that a human knew of the Heartguard.

Instead she said: 'Where are the rest of you?'

Sinclair too had wondered where the rest of the Rangers were, but he never would have asked it like that. He had already noticed that there were no Minbari present. The base was supposed to accommodate a training staff of seven, and thirty recruits. Trafford's eyes narrowed, and he addressed his answer to Sinclair.

'That's what I meant when I told you over the channel that I wished we could have had some warning, sir. They're gone, sir. The rest of the camp is away on a training mission in the mountains. Gerinen took one group, Maroofi the other, along with two of the instructors.' A Ranger to Sinclair's left suddenly smiled, then his face snapped back to the way it was before, so fast that Sinclair wondered if he'd imagined it. When he looked back at Trafford, it was to find the big Ranger engaged in a staring contest with Imindor. Sinclair was unwilling to find out who might win that particular battle of wills. Making sure Imindor could see his disapproval, he put his hand on Trafford's arm.

'Why don't you show me the base, Adrian, then perhaps we could find somewhere to talk. There are some things that I'd like to know, and things that I'd like you all,' he gestured at the assembled Rangers, 'to know as well. And besides, this sun is very hot.' And it was, compared to Minbar's gentle star.

'It would be a pleasure, sir.' He turned to the Rangers. 'Carry on as you were, and assemble in the refectory in fifteen minutes.' He turned back to Sinclair. 'Why don't we start with the base's layout, sir,' said Trafford. Sinclair nodded, and the two of them began walking across the compound. Imindor turned to the Sadaelathi, speaking rapidly in a warrior caste dialect, then followed Sinclair with four of her warriors. The rest began to scatter across the compound. She herself took up her position at his left. Sinclair turned to her and spoke in a whisper.

'Imindor, are you sure that this overt display of protectiveness, while reassuring, is really necessary.' Trafford walked on just in front. Imindor did not take her eyes from Trafford's back. The bearded man half turned to look at them.

She kept that huntress gaze fixed on Trafford. 'They do not move right.' Sinclair frowned, but she forestalled any question he had. 'Just humour me, Sa'Shy Alyt,' was all she said.

Sinclair sighed, long and deeply. He knew when she would not be baulked and this was one of those times. He would just have to put up with her protectiveness, and try and make sure that she and Trafford did not rub each other up the wrong way. He smiled, to show he was not offended. 'Very well then. But are you sure you are not just jumping at shadows?'

Imindor did not exactly stiffen at what he just said, she did not display any emotion overtly. But just as the Sadaelathi could read his moods, so Sinclair was coming to read theirs, especially Imindor's, and he read sudden shock and alertness in her. He turned back to Trafford as if nothing had happened. The Ranger was looking at him quizzically, his head cocked to one side as if he had heard something, a smile on his face.

'A curious turn of phrase, sir.'

Sinclair frowned. 'Pardon me?'

'Nothing, sir.' He shook his head, smiling. 'Over here, sir, we have a small complex that we set up to add to our cover story about us being a prospecting jaunt.' He stood in front of the minehead that Sinclair had spotted from the shuttle. 'It even works. We have an elevator, the shaft goes down to forty metres, and we have a Von Neumann array down there which does the actual mining.' He turned to point back across the compound, putting his hand on Sinclair's shoulder. Even through the robes and armour, Sinclair could feel that it was very cold. 'Over there are the barracks, the refectory, a recreational facility and the instructors' quarters, and a mechanics workshop. Vehicles are parked over there. And over there is Operations. That's the most interesting part. That's where we're headed now.'

The whole litany sped off Trafford's tongue, so fast that Sinclair had barely the time to form a question and the Ranger was already moving towards the building that he had indicated. 'Trafford, you mentioned the barracks. How many Minbari are there in training here with you?'

Trafford paused and slowed. 'Only three, sir. And they do bunk with us. Not separately.' He smiled to show that he had anticipated Sinclair's question. Sinclair smiled back, Imindor maintaining her air of frosty disapproval. The entrances to the Ops building was low and wide, the crest of the Night Walkers still visible over the mantle despite the base's age. Trafford vanished inside without waiting for them. Sinclair moved after them, but was checked at the entrance by Imindor. One of the Sadaelathi, Sinclair saw it was Esiderine, with a sword strapped across his back, went in first, seeming to glide into the building, then another of the Minbari, and only then did Imindor allow Sinclair in.

The room inside was clearly the command centre for the base. Beneath a row of bright fluorescent lights, three Rangers manned a bank of consoles that lined one of the walls, a bas relief chart of Chamarra rested on a table that occupied the centre of the room, charts hung on the walls,  and an old holo-projector stood in a corner. As they stared around, a fourth Ranger entered from a door on the left, and began to study a large wall chart.

'This is Ops,' Trafford gestured expansively. 'The nerve centre you might say.' He pointed to the bank of consoles. 'Over there is communications, orbital tracking, a weather station link, a library and encyclopaedia database, and an engineering databank.' The litany had the ring of something learnt by rote. 'On the map table is where we plan our missions. You can see,' he walked over to the table where another Ranger was occupied, 'where the two training missions are operating. One in the northern highlands, the other north east of here in some swampland. Hanaka.' Trafford seemed to be fighting an urge to smile. A Ranger at work on the map table, a slightly built Japanese, looked up at Trafford. 'Why don't you show the commander how the table links into the holo-projector?' Trafford smiled and winked. Hanaka nodded, and made to move around the table to where the control pad was located, Sinclair stepping back to let him pass. There was a whisper of speech from the microphone on Imindor's collar, and she looked up and around quickly, seeming to count the Rangers in the room. The others with her were doing the same.

'The mountains are hard going, but nothing like the Shield Range around Yedor,' said Trafford. 

The reference was so casual Sinclair almost missed it. When he realised, he felt a chill wash down his back. He looked up from the map at Trafford. The Ranger was smiling at Imindor, whose gaze could have chipped stone. The four Sadaelathi had drawn closer to him, seeming to look everywhere at once without seeming to. A low buzz of conversation came from the bank of consoles where five Rangers were seated in front of their screens.

Imindor leaned toward Sinclair and hissed: 'We are leaving, now.' Sinclair frowned at her, the nuances of the situation hovering tantalisingly out of reach. The door suddenly hissed shut, and Hanaka turned on his left foot and with his right hand drove a heavy bladed knife into Sinclair's chest.

End of Part One




From: "Luke McCallin" <woggo@bih.net.ba>
Subject: Cloak of Stone Part 2
Date: Mon, 18 Oct 1999 23:41:36 +00


Well, B5 fans, so far so good. I've had some nice emails from some of 
you (thankyou), and a few from people who said that they could not read 
it. I've consulted the Rangers, and they have told me to save the part 
of the story that I am sending as a Text file, and send it in the email. 
So, here goes. I hope that you can read it. And thanks once again to 
those of you who have read it and took the time to get in touch.

Cheers, and enjoy (comments welcome as always)

Luke

3D3D3D3D3D3D3D3D3D

Disclaimer: Babylon 5 and its associated characters are the property of 
J. Michael Straczynski, Warner Bros and TNT. All else belongs to Luke 
McCallin.

3D3D3D3D3D3D3D3D

Cloak of Stone, Part 2

Quicker than Sinclair thought that anything could move, Imindor knocked 
the hand with the blade away to the side and, in the same movement, 
stepped into Hanaka, delivering a flurry of blows to his chest and face. 
The Japanese, face bloody and chest crushed, collapsed backward onto the 
table like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Sinclair, who had not 
even moved, was suddenly grabbed from behind by strong arms and lifted. 
He heard the sound of more blows being struck. Suddenly coming to his 
sense, he began to struggle against the confining arm until a familiar 
voice hissed at him. 'Do not struggle, Sa'Shy Alyt.' Esiderine carried 
Sinclair to a corner and all but threw him into it, then stood in front 
of him drawing the sword from his back. Sinclair, looking disbelievingly 
over the warrior's shoulder, saw the scene unfold.

Trafford rose to his feet in a silence thick enough to cut, nose 
streaming with blood, a manic smile fixed on his face. Beyond him, all 
of the Rangers had risen to their feet. All of them were there, and all 
of them held something - a pickaxe, a knife, an iron bar, several held 
PPGs. And all of them were looking at Sinclair. None of them showed the 
remotest expression, only a gaping emptiness in their eyes. The 
remaining four Sadaelathi withdrew into the corner with Sinclair, the 
corner farthest from the door, a crescent of black armoured forms facing 
out into the room. At the centre of their line was Imindor. There was 
stillness and silence, and then Imindor balled her fists and flexed them 
inward once. From the cowling on each of her fighting gloves sprang two 
crystal blades, and she drew her pistol. The other three did the same, 
and still there was silence.

It was broken by Hanaka. Breath bubbling and wheezing through his 
smashed nose, the Ranger struggled up from the table and stood, shakily, 
next to Trafford. Sinclair thought that no one could have lived through 
what Imindor had done. The bearded Ranger chief spoke finally through 
his manic smile.

'You're very quick, Sadaelathi bitch. What was it that gave it away? The 
mountains?' He laughed, a shrill sound for such a big man. 'Perhaps I 
should have realised that names change with time. But even if I had, I 
still could not have resisted it. Ahh, this is too good to be true.' He 
giggled, clearly insane, and looked at Sinclair then, a pitiless gaze 
that pinned him to the wall. 'And as for you.' That hysterical laughter 
wheezed out again, and his features twitched, as if he was having 
trouble controlling them. 'Who would ever have thought that you would 
come to me like this? And there I was making all these plans to get to 
you! Ohh, my masters will be so pleased. So very pleased you cannot 
imagine.' He cackled, and then he seemed to change. Sinclair blinked, 
but his eyes were not deceiving him. The light in the room was growing 
less. He looked at Trafford and the breath caught in his throat. The 
light was being drawn into him. As he watched, Trafford fell into a 
deepening shadow, until he was nothing more than the outline of a man at 
the centre of a sliding darkness, and then even that seemed to vanish, 
and there was something else there in the dark, a jagged outline of 
something hideous. Again he cackled, the sound seeming to come from far 
within his shadowed form. 'And as for you, Sadaelathi bitch. You are 
going to lose him again.'

At the centre of that darkness, three points began to glow a malevolent 
orange and a voice, seeming to echo from impossible distances, slithered 
from within it, crawling into Sinclair's mind, a voice never meant for 
men to hear, and he reeled and gasped at its psychic force, a mounting 
pressure in his head.

'KILL THEM.'

With that, the pain in his head reached a crescendo, then faded to a 
muted buzz. He opened eyes that he had screwed shut to see a room lit by 
a flickering halflight, and to see the Rangers charge across the room, 
and onto the Sadaelathi crescent. A hail of actinic cyan bolts tore into 
them from the Sadaelathis' pistols. Those hit staggered, some stumbling, 
but all ran on or rose to their feet with gaping wounds. A few wild PPG 
shots came back the other way, and a Sadaelathi staggered, before 
straightening and ignoring the smoking wound on his shoulder. A row of 
consoles exploded, and fires began burning in the hollow windows of the 
smashed screens. Imindor and the others holstered their pistols as it 
became obvious that they were useless and flowed into fighting stances 
to meet the rush, two of the Sadaelath unlimbering fighting pikes with 
wickedly barbed ends. The first Ranger reached them, a pickaxe raised 
high. Imindor caught it with the blades of one glove. A flick of the 
wrist and the Ranger crashed to the floor, Imindor slamming the charged 
blades of the other glove into his chest, white fire bursting around the 
wound.

The other Rangers ran onto the blades and fists of the other Sadaelathi. 
Hands and feet and pikes blurred into the Rangers with sickening cracks 
and thuds. White flashes from the charged blades outlined the dim room 
in stark light, illuminating a scene of writhing bodies, and the pillar 
of darkness that was Trafford, immobile and unmoving.

There was a sudden silence. The Sadaelathi stood over a scene of 
carnage, their crescent unbroken. Smoke rose from the bodies of the 
Rangers that were sprawled on the floor. Sinclair found that he was 
holding his breath, and he let it out explosively, and realised also 
that the thing was still in his mind, a presence like a cancerous sore 
or the distant screech of nails across a blackboard. Wincing, trying to 
shut it out, he sought out Imindor among the bodies. She stood over two 
Rangers, eyes fixed on Trafford, talking urgently into her collar 
microphone. None of the Sadaelathi seemed to be affected by the thing's 
mind, or else they were ignoring it. Esiderine stiffened suddenly.

'Kaan Alyt,' he called urgently.

Imindor snapped around at the sound of his voice and her title. One of 
the Rangers was struggling to his feet, another rolled over and pushed 
herself up on one arm, the other hanging broken and useless. One of the 
Sadaelathi cursed, and almost of their own volition, they backed away, 
withdrawing further into the corner. Another stood on a broken leg, 
another swayed upright, another. Imindor snapped an order, and the spell 
was broken. She moved forward, legs scything into the knees of a Ranger 
who raised an iron bar over his head. The other Sadaelathi stepped back 
into the fray, leaping over bodies to strike at those Rangers who had 
survived them.

But hands reached up from the floor to grab at the Sadaelathi. Two of 
the warriors fell, buried beneath bodies that thrashed to new life and 
piled on top of them. One of the Sadaelathi gave an agonised cry and was 
still. The other fought for her life underneath two of the seemingly 
unstoppable Rangers. A burst of fire leaped suddenly from one of the 
Ranger's backs who slumped bonelessly. The other seemed to rise up, 
fighting invisible hands that had her by the hair and that cast her 
aside, broken and bleeding. There was a shimmer in the air as a once 
invisible Sadaelathi turned off his cloaking device, standing over his 
comrade on the floor.

Imindor called an order in a ringing voice, and the thing that was 
Trafford uttered an unearthly shriek, and whirled to face something that 
Sinclair could not see. A Sadaelathi threw her a pike and, stepping over 
the twisted body of a Ranger, Imindor drove it into the darkness, white 
fire flaming for an instant. It shrieked again, turning to face her. 
Sinclair cried out, seeing her standing before it, her armour almost 
shining next to the thing which seemed to eat the light, the embers of 
its eyes glowing in the dark with a deadly promise. Even Horatio on the 
bridge never faced such odds, thought Sinclair desperately, and with all 
his might he willed her to victory. A terrible sense of impotence burned 
a slow fire in his belly, an urge to take up a weapon and fight, but he 
knew he would only get in the way of the Sadaelathi and make their task 
that much harder. A hail of cyan bolts slammed into the thing from 
seemingly out of nowhere and it shrieked again, and Sinclair fancied he 
could hear desperation in its screech and in its rancid touch in his 
mind.

But into the gap in the Sadaelathi crescent created by the two fallen 
warriors stepped the Rangers. Esiderine's sword, shining with the tell 
tale sign of a mono-edge blade, span the knife from a Rangers' hand and 
cut him down, and that Ranger fell and did not move. A PPG fired from 
somewhere in the smoke and the burst of superhot plasma, rippling 
through the air like a mirage, washed over Esiderine. The Sadaelathi 
cried out as the shot splashed against his armour, falling back against 
Sinclair and then to the floor. A second blast from the PPG erupted 
against the wall by Sinclair's head, heat and bits of burning composite 
splashing over him.

'Sinclair!!' With what seemed a sixth sense, Imindor called out as 
Esiderine fell, then her pike was flashing in riposte to the scything 
attacks of the thing at the centre of the dark, attacks which left blurs 
of midnight in their wake. The force of her cry span other Sadaelathi 
around, seeing the danger to him.

A spade clutched in both hands like a spear, a second Ranger stepped up 
to Sinclair, face appallingly vacant beneath a mask of blood and grime. 
>From the floor, Esiderine thrust desperately with his sword, the blade 
sliding into the Ranger's belly as if into water, but it was not enough. 
Esiderine cried out again as another burst of plasma struck him, and the 
spade slammed into Sinclair's chest. The impact armour stiffened like a 
coffin around him, but the force of the blow knocked the breath from 
Sinclair, pinning him to the wall. The armour released and he slumped 
over, but he had the presence of mind to raise his arm over his head. 
The spade crashed onto his back, breaking over the armour which hardened 
around Sinclair again. Locked inside it, Sinclair toppled like a statue, 
the armour releasing him to sprawl on the floor. Gasping for breath, his 
back and chest beginning to hurt, he looked up to see a sword take the 
head of the Ranger who stood over him, and to see the Sadaelathi who had 
saved him flung against the wall, her armour flaming and smoking from a 
PPG burst. Something flew from the smoky gloom and struck Sinclair a 
blow on the head. Pain burst inside his skull, and he collapsed to the 
floor.

Through the red fog in his head, he watched a scene from the Inferno. 
Figures danced through the smoke and gloom. A figure of nightmare with 
scimitar limbs dueled with a slender form. A shriek ripped the air of 
the room, and daylight burst across the banks of smoke as the door 
exploded inwards, and shapes swarmed in from the light. Another shriek 
split the air, and pursued Sinclair into unconsciousness, echoing and 
echoing in his mind, and he knew nothing more.

* * *

He floated in a leaden unconsciousness, a lethargy that was soul deep. 
There was something calling him, something drawing him back, and like a 
fish rising to the lure, he rose up, sloughing off the leadeness. A 
voice. A familiar voice that talked to him, that felt for him in a way 
that he did not understand. The words rose up around him like bubbles, 
each one a pearl, each one a world in itself, worthy of a lifetime of 
contemplation. He embraced them eagerly, marveling at their beauty, and 
they came to make sense, each one reacting with another, forming 
meaning. And so he listened for the meaning that the voice gave to the 
words.

'It is difficult, Jeffrey. You do not know how difficult. We have waited 
so long for you, for another to be named Sa'Shy Alyt, but how could we 
know that you would be a human.' He felt an eruption of meaning around 
that word. Human. Rich in feeling and familiarity, a burst of 
realisation came to him. Human! I am a human. The voice carried on.

'It is not your fault, I suppose. Your soul is Minbari, and that is what 
counts. But it is hard, so hard, to spend your life devoted to standing 
guard over nothing but a memory and the knowledge of failure. The cloak 
weighs heavily upon us. Upon me. Sometimes, I felt that we would always 
do penance for what happened, and that I had enough anger to swallow the 
world. But anger with no focus will devour you inside. It happens to 
many of us, who rail against an injustice that we had nothing to do 
with, a mistake that none of us made. But we pay for it still. And the 
others remind us, and make us pay as well, as if our own consciences 
were not heavy enough.' The meaning seemed to change in timbre.

'But you have given us hope, Jeffrey. Hope of redemption, and a second 
chance. The fact that you are human has made it hard for us, as I know 
it has been hard for you. The scorn that is heaped upon you is heaped on 
us too. But we need you.' The voice paused, the pearls dissolving, the 
strings of meaning breaking up and drifting apart, and bereft of them he 
floundered for an eternal moment. 'I need you.' Once again, the words 
burst around him like bubbles. 'Come back to us. Do not leave us like he 
did. Do not make us suffer another thousand years. Come back to me, 
Sa'Shy Alyt.' The shackles and weights holding him down began to loosen, 
and he rose up further, through the words and strings of meaning. There 
was a barrier, then he was through it and light and pain assaulted him. 
Recognition returned to him - his name, who he was - as the pain in his 
head crashed home around the words like waves against a cliff, sweeping 
them away almost as if they had never been there, making him doubt what 
he had heard.

His eyelids fluttered open, then quickly shut as light lanced his eyes. 
They opened again, more slowly, and he saw the figure that bent over 
him, crowned with a halo of sunlight, who had his head cradled in her 
lap and whose eyes were flooded with relief. She had been talking to 
him. He was sure of that. Memory of what he had heard flickered briefly, 
but he was too tired to chase it, or fathom its meaning. He was sure it 
would come to him when he needed it to. She had a name.

'Imindor,' he whispered from a parched throat.

She nodded, a smile breaking across her face like sunlight from behind a 
cloud.

He raised a hand to his head, running his hands over the smooth circle 
of a medical pack that covered the area where he had been struck. The 
pain was subsiding to little more than a pounding ache. He tried to 
raise himself on his elbows, but she placed a firm hand on his shoulder, 
pushing him back down. He gave in to her, feeling weak as a new born 
kitten.

'Rest, Sa'Shy Alyt,' she said. 'Rest.'

He lay back on the grass, eyes slitted against the wash of brilliant 
sky. A memory tugged at him. 'Jeffrey,' he said.

'Your pardon?' she said.

'Jeffrey,' he said again. 'You called me Jeffrey.' He turned his head 
towards her. Her face was impassable and impossible to read. 'I would 
like it if you would call me that again.' He held her gaze, then turned 
away, eyes to the sky, and they said nothing for a moment.

It was the sounds of movement that roused him eventually. He pushed 
himself up on his elbows and Imindor made no move to stop him. His head 
throbbed for a moment, and his vision darkened and spots swam before his 
eyes as the pressures shifted in his head, and he looked around himself.

He lay on the grass against the wall of the main Ranger building. A 
crescent of Sadaelathi surrounded him, facing out at the jungle. A line 
of ebony statues would have shown more life than them, and Sinclair 
could almost feel the fury coming out of them in waves. Sitting up, he 
turned towards the wall. Where the door into the building had been was a 
blackened hole, chunks of composite littering the ground. Smoke wafted 
out from within, and a charnel house stench that Sinclair only just 
registered. His nose turned at it, so offensive was it. Then he noticed 
the bodies.

He rose to his feet slowly, and did not refuse the helping hand that 
Imindor extended, and he walked down the wall. There were seventeen 
bodies, a row of fourteen, and a group of three, on either side of the 
door. Sinclair walked over to the three and knelt down next to them. 
Three Sadaelathi. Two males, a female, all with dreadful wounds to their 
faces and chests. He felt a tightness in his throat, around which he 
could not speak, and his vision suddenly blurred with tears. He wiped 
them away angrily, and not a little self-consciously. The first three 
had died for him, and they would not be the last. He knew that with a 
terrible finality, and he did not stop the tears when they started 
again. Imindor stood at his shoulder, a silent presence. But it was not 
the deaths on their own that were the cause of his tears. He tried to 
speak around the pain in his throat. Failed, and tried again.

'Esiderine,' he said finally, his voice breaking slightly. The 
Sadaelathi's chest and neck was a blackened ruin where the PPG had burnt 
through the armour. 'I know Esiderine. But...but I do not know the other 
two. I do not know their names.' Imindor made to say something, but he 
held up a hand. 'Wait, please wait. I...I need to do this.' He sniffed 
back his tears, feeling himself calm. He had always known the names of 
those under him. Always. Unbidden, the image of Mitchell's Starfury 
exploding under the Minbari guns at the Line smote him behind the eyes. 
He drove it away. There was no place for that here. But he had known the 
pilots of Alpha Squadron. He did not know the names of the Sadaelathi, 
but they fought for him as well. He concentrated on the female. Looking 
past the torn wreck of her face, he remembered eyes that were placid and 
calm, eyes that had measured the world, and him. An easy smile. A gentle 
presence that had belied a deadly grace. All gone. Her name was...her 
name was...

'Samranna,' he said, raising his head to the sky in thought. 'Her name 
was Samranna.' He looked back down, at the third. But nothing came to 
him. No name. He stood, and he made a vow, under the noon sun on 
Chamarra, to know the names of each and every one of the Sadaelathi. 
They were sworn to him, with oaths he did not understand, with an 
intensity and commitment that frightened him if the truth were to be 
told. At the very least, he owed them something in return, and he gave 
them an oath of his own, spoken silently to his heart. And under the 
noon sun, he felt a part of himself die forever, and the hole where it 
once had been fill with steel, forged in anger. A part of him that 
frightened him, but he knew that it might help him through what was to 
come.

He turned to Imindor, and something in her eyes told him that perhaps 
she knew what it was that had gone through his mind. 'He was called 
Gelraenn,' she said quietly. Sinclair nodded, and said nothing, only 
looked beyond the body to the other row. The bodies there were covered 
by a tarpaulin that the Sadaelathi had found somewhere. Walking over to 
them, Sinclair passed the door into Ops, and almost gagged on the stench 
within. As he had done next to Esiderine, Samranna and Gelraenn, he 
knelt down and paused for a moment. Then he pulled the tarpaulin back.

The face underneath the cover was pale under a deep tan, the mouth slack 
beneath closed eyelids. Blond hair was matted across the forehead. She 
was an ordinary looking woman. Sinclair supposed that she would have 
gone unnoticed in a crowd of five. He did not know her name. He could 
not summon up the energy to care either.

'There is something else, Jeffrey,' said Imindor. She reached over his 
shoulder, and unzipped the top of the jumpsuit the Ranger wore. The 
Ranger's skin was even paler below the sharp tan line that encircled her 
neck. The bra that she had been wearing was broken, her breasts lying 
flattened across her chest and between them was a tattoo, a caustic 
brand of spidery characters as large across as his palm. It was black as 
night, yet the brand seemed to shimmer out of the corner of his eye with 
an oily sheen when he raised his head to look questioningly at Imindor. 
She shook her head.

'I have no idea what it means.' She gestured at the rest of the bodies. 
'They all have it. I know what it is though,' she said as Sinclair rose 
to his knees, wincing slightly as his head spun. He realised then just 
how much he ached, all over. It must have shown, because she took his 
arm. 'How do you feel?'

He shook his head, breathing out heavily. He looked at her with a wry 
expression, a smile playing across the corners of his mouth. 'Like I've 
been a high-G Starfury simulator with a hangover for an hour.' She 
opened her mouth to say something but he forestalled her. 'The brand,' 
he said. 'You said you knew what it was.'

She looked at him for a moment, then muttered something under her 
breath. He smiled at her, belying his spinning head. She muttered again 
before answering him. 'It is Shadow script, without a doubt.' To 
Sinclair, it seemed that his head began to spin and throb even faster, 
and his heart began to pound in time with it. 'We have records of it, 
from the last war. No one ever deciphered it though. But we can image 
these brands, and try and cross reference it with the Archives at 
Calan'dhraenn.' Sinclair nodded mutely. He had heard of the Archives. A 
wonder of this age to rival the lost Library of Alexandria in its age, 
back on Earth. He had already asked for and been denied access to it. 
Maybe now. He shook himself mentally, bringing himself back to the 
present.

'Then that means that Trafford, that that thing...in there, was a 
Shadow?'

Imindor shook her head. 'I do not know, Jeffrey. I do not think so. I do 
not think that we would have defeated it so easily if it were.' Easily? 
Sinclair stared at her. He remembered what he had seen in Ops. Horatio 
on the bridge. Imindor carried on. 'But it is known that the Shadows had 
many allies, vassals, slaves, call them what you will. It could well be 
that they still do. It could then well be that what was in there, what 
possessed Trafford and these unfortunate souls, was one of those lesser 
beings.'

Sinclair nodded, and turned towards the door, steeling himself for what 
was within. He took a deep breath, and walked into the gloom of Ops. The 
place was shrouded with smoke, and his feet crunched on glass and 
composite that lay underfoot. Light fittings hung from the roof, cables 
and wiring strung out like a demented spider's web. The stench hit him 
like a wall, even holding his breath. He gagged again, but forced 
himself to walk over to where Trafford lay. The big Ranger looked as 
though he had been decomposing for a month, what was left of his skin 
black and scabrous, clinging to the outline of his bones. He had been 
torn apart down the middle, the sunken cavity of his torso empty of 
organs, and a glint of white showed where his spine lay. There was no 
sign of what had possessed him. Sinclair's chest began to tighten, 
invisible bands driving him to breathe. He made for the door, almost 
running as he emerged into the sunlight, gasping great lungfuls of clean 
air. After a moment, he turned to Imindor.

'Is there anything else here for us?'

She nodded, her dark eyes unreadable. 'We found the rest of the Rangers. 
They were buried in a grave, not far into the jungle.'

The Sadaelathi could read his moods after a fashion, and Sinclair was 
learning to read theirs. He knew that she was keeping something back. 
'What else?' he said. His tone made her cock her head and stare at him 
in a way he had never seen her do. It was often the little things that 
brought home to him the fact that she was not human, that none of the 
Minbari were, however much they sometimes seemed like it. He began to 
feel a little uncomfortable under that huntress gaze.

'Gerinen was there, as well as Maroofi. I think that they were the 
Rangers that would not submit to it, to the creature. They suffered for 
it. I think that they suffered for it terribly.' She said no more, for 
which he was grateful. His mind's eye was imagination enough. 'I want to 
bring what is left of Trafford back. He needs to be studied, as well as 
the rest of the possessed.' Sinclair nodded. 'Others can return later to 
take care of the bodies of those he killed.'

'We can leave then?'

'I think that it is past time,' she replied. 'The Shy Alyt of the 
Gilratha has been threatening to descend on us with everything at his 
possession, as well as calling for help from Minbar.' She looked around. 
'I will not be sad if I never see this place again, upon my oath I will 
not. By your leave?' She said to Sinclair. He nodded, and she spoke into 
the microphone on her collar. The crescent of Sadaelathi contracted 
around them into a circle, and they made their way over to the shuttle. 
Sinclair strapped in, and Imindor detailed two warriors to guard him 
while the rest of them went back for the bodies. Sinclair relaxed into 
the seat. One of the Sadaelathi changed the medpack on his head. The 
Minbari worked silently and quickly, and Sinclair thought that the new 
pack must have had a sedative mixed in, because almost immediately, he 
began to feel drowsy. The Sadaelathi moved away, but Sinclair reached 
out an arm gone suddenly heavy and stopped him. 'Wait,' he said. The 
warrior looked down at him expressionlessly. 'What...what is your name?'

The Minbari cocked his head in a manner similar to the way Imindor had 
looked at him. 'Lennal,' he said finally.

Sinclair nodded, and relaxed back into the chair. 'Thank you,' he said, 
closing his eyes. He felt the world drifting calmy away. Dimly, he heard 
the sounds of the hold being loaded, and of the warriors belting 
themselves in. A sudden warm presence beside him was Imindor. He was 
asleep before the shuttle lifted off.

* * *

Gentle hands trained to kill lifted him from the shuttle seat and 
carried him through the halls of the Gilratha. The armour that had saved 
his life was removed, and he was placed under soft sheets upon a bed, 
while Minbari muttered prayers against the ill luck carried with 
sleeping in the horizontal. Almost as soon as the shuttle was aboard, 
the Gilratha broke orbit and opened a jump point. A flash of light in an 
ochre whirlpool, and it was gone.

* * *

Sinclair awoke during the jump back to Minbar. He felt weak still, but 
free of pain. His head felt wooly, stuffed with half remembered dreams. 
Dreams of Catherine, of Michael, of Rangers and Babylon 5. And dreams of 
Imindor, who spoke to him of a penance that had lasted a thousand years. 
Then he knew, that she had spoken to him as he lay unconscious on 
Chamarra, that she had bared part of her soul to him. She was there when 
he awoke, sitting in the shadows. She came over to the bed, dressed in 
her flowing black robes, and sat next to him. Deep within the Gilratha, 
the engines throbbed, a far off pulse that threatened to pull him back 
to sleep.

'How do you feel?'

He passed his hands over his eyes, feeling his palms rasp on stubble, 
and smiled back. 'OK, I think. Where are we?'

'Halfway home,' she said. Almost, he asked her what it was that she 
thought the Sadaelath were being punished for, but held back. Another 
time, he thought. Instead he asked another question.

'What was it that Trafford said about mountains that sparked you off?'

She looked quizzically at him for a moment, before understanding his 
question. 'He called the mountains around Yedor the Shield Range, from 
when Yedor was the capital of a state that sometimes warred with other 
states. The mountains have not been called that in nigh on a thousand 
years, since Minbari stopped killing Minbari.'

'As Valen commanded,' said Sinclair. The look she gave him suddenly made 
him aware that he was treading on dangerous ground.

'As Valen commanded,' she agreed. 'No human could have known the old 
name, let alone the fact that Yedor is mountain shielded. But the 
Shadows would have known, from the time of the last war against them. 
They were still called the Shield Range then. And there were...other 
things. Small things,' she finished.

She looked directly at him. There was something else, he was sure of it. 
'What is it? What is left?' asked Sinclair.

'We managed to track Trafford, through the base computers. He arrived on 
Chamarra seventeen days ago. The base logs show that a Drazi ship made a 
supply run at that time, and Trafford came in on one of the shuttles. It 
was where he joined the ship that worries me.'

Sinclair felt a chill run through him. 'Where?' he asked. Her eyes were 
dark pools. Whatever meaning that might have been in them was lost to 
him.

'Babylon 5.'

End of Part One


From: "Luke McCallin" <woggo@bih.net.ba>
Subject: Cloak of Stone Part 3
Date: Tue, 19 Oct 1999 19:45:51 +00

Greetings, B5 fans

Thanks again to all of you who have taken the time to read this and 
reply to me. Your comments have been great. I've thoroughly enjoyed 
sending this, so without further ado, here is part three. The pace slows 
down a bit here, but only for a while...!

Read and enjoy. Your comments, as always, more than welcome.

Cheers

Luke

3D3D3D3D

Disclaimer: Babylon 5 and its associated characters are the property of 
J. Michael Straczynski, Warner Bros, and TNT. All else is (c) and 
belongs to Luke McCallin

A Cloak of Stone

Part Three

Earth Alliance space station Babylon 5

0900 Hours

January  2260

Traffic into and out of Babylon 5 had been severely curtailed in the 
wake of the incident with the Centauri battlecruiser. HazMat teams had 
only just finished clearing up the debris from the wreck of the 
Palmaria, as the cruiser had been called, but the cleanup had diverted 
ships into roundabout routes to enter and leave the jump gate. Delays 
had gotten longer and longer. In addition, work was still underway on 
repairing the damage done to the zero-G docking bay by the Centauri. It 
all made for a stressful combination - crews, dockers, passengers, and 
the command staff were seemingly constantly on the verge of being at 
each others throats.

'...so the repair crew says at least another week, possibly even two, 
before the ZG bay is operational again.' Commander Ivanova rubbed her 
temples at the end of her briefing to the Captain. She could feel a 
monster of a migraine coming on.

Sheridan grunted disparagingly. 'Yeah, that's what they said a week ago. 
The rate they're going...' He tailed off, not bothering to finish the 
sentence. 'Is there anything else to report on?'

Ivanova shook her head. 'No. No that's all from my end.' To Sheridan, 
she looked desperately tired. It seemed that, with the hectic pace at 
the end of the last year over, events had caught up with her. Still, she 
said that she was alright, and had rejected his proposal that she take 
some of her accumulated leave outright. He had considered making it an 
order, but was loath to pull rank on her on this. Emotions were too 
tangled and too near the surface. Sheridan turned to Garibaldi. Even 
sitting up straight in the other chair in front of Sheridan's desk, the 
Security Chief still somehow gave the impression that he was slouching.

'Mr. Garibaldi, what's the security situation?'

'Well, all things considered, not great,' he began. 'We've got a lot of 
Centauri dying on the station all of a sudden. Now evidence would seem 
to point towards the killings being done by Narn. Londo is screaming 
that it's them taking revenge for their defeat, and is itching to have 
them all executed. Top of the list is G'Kar, of course.'

Sheridan frowned. 'I can't see that the Narns would be behind this, 
especially after the terms of surrender that were forced on them. And I 
can't think that they'd want to jeapardise their being able to remain 
here. It's the only home that most of them have left.'

'Agreed,' said Garibaldi. 'So a little digging turned up the fact that 
most of the dead are members of the Calabaramos.'

'The what?' said Sheridan and Ivanova together.

'The Calabaramos,' said Garibaldi with just the slightest hint of a 
smirk. 'The equivalent of the Mafia, or the Yakuza, back on Earth. They 
have a branch on the station. Hard as hell to make anything stick on 
them. The way I see it is that some people are taking advantage of the 
opportunity to settle a few grudges, get a few old scores out the way, 
and hopefully have it blamed on the Narn.'

'Hmm. Makes sense,' said Sheridan. 'What are you doing about it?'

'Making sure that none of the Narn get lynched, for one. Pulling in the 
most likely perps for questioning. I've got a couple of suspects in 
custody already. Other than that, there's not a lot I can do. The Teflon 
Bug's got nothing on these guys when it comes to making charges stick.'

Sheridan nodded. 'Anything else?'

An expression of distaste crossed Garibaldi's face, and he shifted in 
his seat, crossing his legs. His left hand began to fiddle, almost 
unconsciously, with the holster on his belt. 'Some of the Nightwatch are 
getting a little out of hand. I've got a couple banged up in the brig 
for assaulting a dockworker. And three more Security guards have joined 
up. I don't know, Captain,' he said. 'I can't see anything good coming 
out of this.'

Sheridan's face tightened as he remembered his run-in with Welles. He 
sighed. 'Just try and steer clear of them. Don't butt heads with them if 
you can avoid it.' Garibaldi nodded, but looked none too convinced. 'Is 
there anything else? I have a meeting with Ambassador Delenn in ten 
minutes.'

Garibaldi shook his head. 'No, that's all from me. Although,' he 
grinned, 'there's been another resurgence in those rumours about the 
Triangle.'

Ivanova cocked her head enquiringly at the Captain. 'Isn't that where 
you had that experience with...'

'...that Markab. Yes,' said Sheridan. 'The one that was dying. What have 
you heard, Mr. Garibaldi?'

'Ahhh, you know. Same old same old. Wierd lights, voices, things that 
you see out of the corner of your eye. Spooky stuff like that. Seems the 
Lurkers are all riled up about it lately. But,' he said with a 
dismissive tone and shrug of his shoulders, 'it's nothing to worry 
about.'

Sheridan nodded. 'Well, if that's all, then this meeting is over. Thank 
you all.' He rose from behind the desk, the others rising with him. 
'Dismissed.'

* * *

After a slight delay, Babylon control gave clearance to dock to the 
Ylliann. The Minbari vessel docked, and its complement of ten passengers 
disembarked, joining the lengthy queue for Customs. None of the ten made 
any complaint at the delay. None of them in fact said anything at all. 
They were dressed alike, in flowing robes of midnight blue edged in 
gold, and all had a kind of calm serenity that schooled their faces to a 
distant stillness.

When their turn to pass Customs came, a male stepped forward, handing 
over ten identicards to the Security officer on duty. The guard looked 
consideringly at the Minbari - the tallest he had ever seen, before 
beginning to insert the cards in his computer. The Minbari's eyes paused 
a moment on the armband that the guard was wearing, a circlet of black 
upon which was a golden insignia. A flicker of distaste shone briefly in 
the Minbari's eyes, but it was extinguished almost immediately, replaced 
with a neutral expression as the guard raised his eyes and passed them 
over the group, returning to rest on the lead Minbari. The guard's face 
too was carefully schooled, but the Minbari saw the distaste and 
contempt that twitched at the corner of his mouth.

'Adepts of the Fifth Fain of Baltara,' he said, expressionlessly. He 
held the Minbari's eyes, and the leader of the Adepts saw the beginnings 
of a lazy insolence. 'What is your business here?' the guard said 
brusquely, looking over the Minbari's shoulder at the rest of his party.

The Minbari felt a tightness in his chest at the guard's rudeness, and 
an instinctive response leapt to his lips. 'It is a free port, is it 
not? Do we need to tell you?' he asked. The guard's eyes snapped back on 
the Minbari, and the insolent light was replaced with a petty, infantile 
anger at having his will balked. He opened his mouth to speak, but said 
nothing. For a moment he struggled visibly for a reply, but found none. 
Reluctantly, he shook his head.

'No. No you do not.' He handed over the identicards. 'Proceed,' he said.

The Minbari inclined his head. 'My thanks.' With that, he walked on into 
the station, the other members of his party following on his heels 
without a glance to left or right. The guard watched them go, and his 
mouth twisted again. He muttered something under his breath, then turned 
to his console and tapped something in. A last look back at the Minbari, 
and he turned to the rest of those waiting to pass through Customs.

* * *

Moving quickly and relying on memory, the Minbari lead the other nine 
through the station. None of them spoke as he chose corridors, lifts and 
transport tubes that lead them to Green Sector, Ambassadorial Wing. The 
group presented themselves before the Security station at the entrance 
to the section, but this time it was a female that took the lead with 
the guard. She handed over the identicards, and bowed gracefully to the 
guard.

'Please inform Ambassador Delenn that Tilindriel of the Fifth Fain of 
Baltara is here to see her. We are expected.'

The guard consulted his roster, then handed back the identicards with a 
smile. 'Please go ahead. I will inform the ambassador that you are on 
the way. Van Arfeld?' Another guard at the station rose to his feet. 
'Please escort this party to Ambassador Delenn's suite.'

The guard led them through Green Sector, stopping outside the Minbari 
suite. The door was opened almost immediately after the chime by a slim 
Minbari in green robes. There was no expression on his face as he bowed 
and gestured for them to come in, nodding his thanks to Van Arfeld as 
the door swung shut on a last glimpse of midnight blue.

Within, Lennier, as he introduced himself, motioned for them to wait. 
'The Ambassador will be with you in just a moment,' he said to the 
female. He gestured to a long divan. 'Will you please sit. Would you 
care for some refreshment?'

At that moment, Delenn came into the room, a smile of welcome upon her 
face. 'Tilindriel! Welcome! It has been so long I....' She trailed off, 
her face losing its welcome, her expression becoming flat and guarded as 
she looked at the Minbari claiming to be Tilindriel. Registering her 
confusion, Lennier moved swiftly to stand by her side. 'You are not 
Tilindriel. I do not know you. Who are you?' A note of anger crept into 
her voice along with an iron ring of command.

The female Minbari said nothing, but reached within her robes and pulled 
out a pendant which she held towards Delenn. Frowning slightly, the 
ambassador stepped forward, looking intently at the device on the 
pendant. Embossed on a golden disc, an eye and a sword stood above a 
representation of Minbar. Delenn stepped back, her carriage betraying 
confusion.

'What are the Heartguard doing here? Did the Sa'Shy Alyt send you?' The 
female made no answer, only stared at her with a level gaze. Instead, 
one of the males stepped forward. An exceptionally large Minbari. Delenn 
looked at him. Something in the way he walked and carried himself, even 
before the voice drained the blood from her face, identified him to 
Delenn. The tall Minbari smiled.

'Hello, old friend.'

* * *

Sheridan shrugged off his jacket and sagged into a chair with a sigh, 
letting his head loll back. Through lowered eyelids he eyed the drinks 
tray on the sideboard, but decided it was too comfortable where he was 
just now to bother getting up from the chair. His eyes shut. Just a few 
minutes, he thought to himself. Just a few minutes, then I'll think 
about dinner, a shower, something like that.

The comm chose that moment to begin ringing. This kind of thing happened 
too often, and always at the worst possible times, for him to even 
bother about thinking of summoning up a reaction. He hauled himself up 
from the chair and walked over to the communit. 'Receive,' he said.

The screen flicked on to show Delenn. Sheridan smiled in greeting. 
'Ambassador Delenn,' he said. He seemed to be smiling at her a lot 
lately. It felt good. But they had already had a meeting today. 'Is 
there something wrong?'

She smiled back at him. 'No, Captain. There is nothing wrong. It is just 
that I would like to meet with you tomorrow. It is nothing official, you 
understand. There is someone that I would like you to meet.'

'That will be no problem,' he said, noting the fact that she had not 
told him who he was. He had come to learn that she had reasons for doing 
everything she did, and they were usually good ones. 'Did you have a 
particular time in mind? I get off duty at 18:00 hours.'

'Then would you come to my quarters at eight o'clock tomorrow evening?' 
Sheridan nodded yes, and she smiled again. 'Then I will see you then. 
Good night, Captain. I hope I did not disturb you.'

'No,' he smiled. 'Not at all. Goodnight, Ambassador.' He reached for the 
cutoff, but she said something else.

'A moment, Captain. Perhaps you should bring Commander Ivanova, Mr. 
Garibaldi and Dr. Franklin. If they are able to come.' She seemed 
hesitant at that.

'I'll inform them. Though Dr, Franklin won't be able to come. He's on 
annual leave, on Earth. Well, goodnight, Ambassador.' He remained 
standing in front of the comm for a moment, thinking. He shrugged 
mentally. Whatever it was, he would find out tomorrow, he thought as he 
made for the shower.

End of Part Three









From: "Luke McCallin" <woggo@bih.net.ba>
Subject: Cloak of Stone Part Four
Date: Wed,  Oct 1999 21:32:25 +00

Dear All

as ever, thankyou to all of you who have taken the time to reply to me 
about this story.

So, here we go with Part Four. I hope you all enjoy it.

Cheers

Luke
3D3D3D3D

Disclaimer: Babylon 5 and its associated characters are the property of 
J. Michael Straczynski, Warner Bros, and TNT. All else is (c) and 
belongs to Luke McCallin

A Cloak of Stone

Part Four



It was a group of three that made their way to Delenn's quarters the 
next night, Sheridan, Ivanova and Garibaldi. The door opened before the 
chime had finished sounding. Lennier bowed them in, and the three of 
them walked in to find Delenn with a Minbari female. Garibaldi 
immediately noticed something in the stranger's bearing, and he moved 
slightly apart from the other two. Flat eyes swiveled to follow him, 
lingering for just an instant before turning back to the other two, but 
Garibaldi knew that in that instant he had been thoroughly sized up and 
evaluated.


Delenn stepped forward to greet them, smiling warmly at Sheridan. She 
motioned them to be seated. To Garibaldi, Delenn seemed peculiarly 
uncertain. She sat on the edge of the divan, and smoothed her robes over 
her knees, and he was struck by how human a gesture of nervousness it 
was, and how unconsciously she had done it. Delenn looked at the 
Minbari, but whatever she might have hoped to find in the other's eyes, 
it was not forthcoming. Garibaldi and Ivanova exchanged equally puzzled 
looks. To the Security Chief this had the makings of high drama. Then 
the stranger nodded.

She took a deep breath. A small smile played at the corner of her mouth. 
'There is someone here that would like to meet with you. He has traveled 
a long way, and carries important news.'

At that, the Minbari woman spoke one word. It was Minbari and none of 
the humans there understood it, but hangings masking the entrance to 
chambers further into Delenn's quarters drew back, and two figures 
stepped out. One looked and moved just like the Minbari woman, even down 
to the flat, lidded gaze that took in the whole room in an instant. But 
the other...

'Jeff!' said Garibaldi leaping to his feet in the same instant that 
Ivanova echoed him with a shocked 'Commander!' Garibaldi knew that his 
jaw must be down around his ankles, but right then he did not give a 
damn. He stared at his old friend, who smiled back at the two of them 
warmly. Sinclair had aged, thought Garibaldi. The lines around his eyes 
and mouth were etched deep, there was more grey in his hair, and his 
eyes had a distance to them that his smile did nothing to bring closer. 
Not a lack of feeling, not an absence of friendship or warmth. Just 
distant. They were, thought Garibaldi, the eyes of a Minbari. When they 
were at their most secretive.

'Michael, Susan. It's good to see you,' he said stepping round the 
divan, and taking their hands in his own.

Ivanova wore a smile of almost childlike wonder, and she looked him up 
and down, shaking her head slightly, before happily exclaiming, 'What 
are you doing here?!'

Sinclair only smiled at her again. 'All in good time, Commander,' he 
said accentuating the title, his eyes dancing merrily. 
'Congratulations,' he said. Ivanova flushed slightly, and her smile 
became even bigger. Then he turned to the third person in their group, 
the humour gone from his face and replaced with something else, an 
expression that Garibaldi did not think that he had ever seen on his 
friend's face. When asked about it later, Garibaldi would have thought 
long and hard. And he would have answered that it was something akin to 
envy.

Sheridan had risen slower than the other two, not immediately 
recognising who it was that had come in. Yet he did know now, Garibaldi 
saw. The two of them, Sheridan and Sinclair looked at each other for a 
moment. Then each held out his hand at the same time, faces stern and 
serious

'Ambassador,' said Sheridan.

'Captain,' replied Sinclair.

'I've heard a great deal about you,' they both said at the same time. 
Both realised the incongruity of the situation, and as one, their faces 
creased into smiles, and they shook hands again.

'Some of it good, I hope,' said Sinclair, looking at Garibaldi and 
Ivanova. The Security Chief noticed Delenn. The Ambassador stood with 
her hands clasped at her breast, and an expression that could only have 
been of relief etched clearly on her face. As for the other Minbari, 
well she still showed no expression of any kind. In spite of himself, 
Garibaldi felt his curiosity about her rising. As if reading his mind, 
Sinclair stepped back from Sheridan, and motioned towards her. 'Allow me 
to introduce Kaan Alyt Imindor. She is the captain of my guard on 
Minbar.' He saw the questions light up in everyone's eyes, and held up a 
hand to forestall them. 'Later, please. There will be time for that 
later.'

They were all still standing, and a hush fell over the group. Delenn 
stepped into it with calm courtesy. 'Please,' she said. 'Be seated. 
There is much we have to talk about.'

At that, everyone resumed their seats. Lennier placed a tray of tea on 
the low table between the divans, and took a seat near Delenn. Sheridan 
looked at Sinclair.

'It would seem that we do have much to talk about. I cannot think what 
might have brought you here all the way from Minbar in such secrecy.'

Sinclair looked down at the floor. He sat on the edge of the divan, his 
arms resting on his knees with his hands loosely clasped. Next to him, 
the Minbari, Imindor, looked at him with an expression that Garibaldi 
could not read. Even though Sinclair did not return that look, still he 
seemed to take strength from it, and raised his eyes to the three of 
them sitting opposite him.

'You know,' he began, 'that my position on Minbar is more than just 
Alliance Ambassador.' He paused while they all nodded. 'I know that 
Delenn has told you some of what is coming, and you have seen some of it 
here for yourselves.' He looked at Sheridan at that and, unbidden, the 
memory came to the Captain of that fateful conversation with Delenn and 
Kosh, and the dreamlike image of something stirring in a deep place. 
Involuntarily, he shivered.

'I know,' said Sheridan, 'and Delenn and I have both briefed Ivanova and 
Garibaldi.' Then he sat forward and concentrated on what Sinclair was 
saying.

'On Minbar, my position is head of an organisation called the Rangers. 
This you also know.' For a moment, it seemed like he was about to say 
more, but at that moment, Delenn leaned forward to the tray on the 
table, and Imindor shifted slightly, just the tiniest movement, and the 
moment was lost. The only sound in the room was the sound of the tea 
being poured. Garibaldi put the cup he was given aside. He had never 
cared for tea. He wondered whether Ivanova and Sheridan had also noticed 
that the Minbari had silenced Sinclair, or how deftly they had done it.

Sinclair sipped from his cup, then looked up again. 'Six days ago, I 
went to visit one of the bases where the Rangers are being trained. We 
found something terrible had happened there.' He proceeded to tell them, 
in short, staccato sentences, what had happened on Chamarra. Garibaldi 
listened with a rising sense of horror and disgust at what had been done 
to those men and women. Beside him, Ivanova was shaking her head 
slightly, and Sheridan's hands were clamped around his cup, such that 
Garibaldi was afraid that he was going to break the delicate china. 
Eventually, Sinclair came to the end of his story, and sat back into the 
divan. Garibaldi had the impression that there was much Sinclair had not 
revealed. But this time, thought the Security Chief, it was his choice. 
Sinclair and Imindor shared a look, and then waited.

It was Sheridan who finally broke the silence. 'You say this Trafford 
was here?' His voice sounded strangely rough. He looked down at the cup 
he was holding, seemed to realise that he was close to breaking it, then 
up at Delenn. A look passed between them, and Garibaldi found himself 
becoming heartily sick of all these meaningful looks being bandied 
around. As if coming to some decision, Sheridan nodded and faced 
Sinclair. 'What can we do to help?'

Sinclair breathed out slowly. A wan smile touched his face. 'Thank you, 
Captain.'

Sheridan smiled back, saying nothing, waiting for his question to be 
answered. Sinclair sat forward again, a new light burning in his eyes.

'What we need is for him to be traced,' he said. 'We managed to follow 
him as far as here, but that's it, and that only because he was assigned 
to this sector. We know that the first time he came here it was April 
last year. Thereafter we found, on examining our records, that we had 
lost track of him. And that worries me. We always keep close track of 
the Rangers, but he somehow vanished without us even realising it. If 
the Rangers have been compromised, then it bodes very badly for the 
future. We need to find out if April was his first time on the station. 
If not, when else has he been here? Where did he come from each time? 
Where did he go when he left? Who, if anyone, did he have contact with 
here? If anyone knew him, can they tell us what he was like? Maybe we 
can spot when he was possessed, try and pinpoint where it happened.'

Garibaldi found himself nodding and looked up to find Sheridan's eyes on 
him. He nodded without needing to be asked. Nuts, he thought to himself 
wryly, does that qualify as a meaningful gaze? Any amusement he felt 
though, he kept it to himself, remembering too clearly what happened 
last time he tried to lighten the atmosphere of a tense gathering with a 
little humour.

'It shouldn't be too hard to track his movements on and off the 
station,' he said to Sinclair and Sheridan both. 'It'll be harder trying 
to follow where he might have gone on the station itself, but...' He 
tailed off, then nodded again, his mouth firming in decision. 'There's a 
few things I can do. I'll get my contacts going in Downbelow as well, 
see what I can stir up among the Lurkers.'

'Do that,' said Sheridan. 'But Michael, be as quiet as possible. Don't 
forget that your second is Nightwatch.' Garibaldi saw Sinclair frown at 
that, and he avoided his old friend's gaze, even though he knew he had 
nothing to be ashamed of himself.

'At the same time,' said Sinclair, 'we would like to do some looking 
around. Perhaps we will see something that you might miss, or not know 
what to look for.'

Garibaldi felt a sense of foreboding, and looked Sinclair straight in 
the eye. 'The only thing that I'll not know what to look for will be 
what you don't tell me to look for.' He paused, and looked at Imindor. 
Her flat stare gave nothing away, and he turned back to Sinclair. 'Is 
there anything that you haven't told me, Jeff?'

Sinclair looked back at him, and his gaze mirrored Imindor's. A hooded 
stare that gave nothing away and yet hinted at so much. Damn, Jeff, 
thought Garibaldi, what are they doing to you over there?

Ivanova spoke up at that moment, treading tentatively on the tensions 
that were suddenly apparent in the room. 'If I may add something, isn't 
there someone who should be here, but isn't?' she looked around at 
everyone, before answering her own question. 'Kosh,' she said. 'Why 
isn't Kosh here? Surely he'd be able to help, not to mention shed some 
light over what happened on Chamarra?'

It was Delenn who answered. 'Ambassador Kosh did not return any of my 
calls inviting him to this meeting. Since his...'she paused, 
'...appearance in the Garden, I have found him even more withdrawn than 
usual.' Garibaldi bit back a sardonic comment on that. Now if ever a 
sentence was an inherent contradiction, that was it, he thought. 
'Nevertheless, he is aware that Ambassador Sinclair is on Babylon 5, and 
we will keep trying to contact him.'

No one said anything for a moment, then Sheridan leant forward and 
clapped his hands together softly, signifying an end to the meeting. To 
Garibaldi, he looked tense, and not a little shaken. Sheridan looked 
around at those assembled there. 'I think the best thing for us to do is 
to wait and see what Mr. Garibaldi can dig up. In the meantime, if you 
wish,' he said to Sinclair, 'you can walk around the station.' He 
smiled. 'I presume you have some sort of disguise, otherwise you 
wouldn't have gotten on to the station so easily.' Sinclair smiled back 
and nodded. 'In that case, I suggest we meet again when one of us has 
something to report.'

There were nods all round, and the Captain rose to his feet, Ivanova and 
Garibaldi rising with him. Sheridan thanked Delenn for her hospitality, 
then left followed by Ivanova. Garibaldi remained a moment, looking at 
Sinclair.

'I hope we get a chance to talk later, Jeff,' he said.

The Ambassador smiled, and there was a touch of sadness there, a wistful 
longing back to times shared in simple companionship. 'I'd like that 
very much.'

Garibaldi's eyes flicked towards Imindor. She had not said a word 
throughout the entire meeting. He nodded, and turned to the door. As it 
swung shut behind him, he realised that Sinclair had not agreed with 
him, that they would have a chance to talk. He walked briskly away and 
did not look back.

* * *

Sheridan did not recall the walk back to his quarters. Truth to be said, 
he did not recall much of the meeting. Not after what Sinclair had said. 
About what had happened to those Rangers that had not served the Shadow. 
Torture and death. A forgotten grave. His door swung open, and he leaned 
back against it when it closed. He shut his eyes, breathing heavily, and 
the room seemed to spin around him, spinning and spinning until it came 
to rest around a single image.

'Oh, Anna,' he whispered brokenly. He shied away from the thought that 
what had been done to those Rangers had been done to her, on Z'ha'dum, 
pushing the thought away to the farthest corners of his mind. But 
another rose to replace it, and held him, no matter how he tried to 
reject it, to make it not true, to despise himself for thinking it and 
wishing it. What if she were not dead? he thought to himself. What if 
she chose life? He could not help the flame that burst to life in his 
mind around the thought of Anna alive, a thought which quickened his 
breath, nor all the old feelings that he had thought buried or laid to 
rest that came flooding back. He held it close, that selfish thought 
that somewhere, his wife might still be alive, and rejected for now the 
implications of what that would mean. His wife. Alive. Serving the 
Shadows.


From: "Luke McCallin" <woggo@bih.net.ba>
Subject: A Cloak of Stone Part 5
Date: Thu, 21 Oct 1999 19:40:21 +00

Dear All

Attached is Part 5 of A Cloak of Stone. I indulged myself a bit in this 
section with lots of mythology!

Hope you all enjoy it. Comments welcome as ever.

Cheers

Luke

3D3D3D3D

Disclaimer: Babylon 5 and its associated characters are the property of 
J. Michael Straczynski, Warner Bros, and TNT. All else is (c) and 
belongs to Luke McCallin

A Cloak of Stone
Part Five


Late that same night, Sinclair drained his glass and set it on the low 
table in front of him. Delenn sat opposite, a glass held daintily in 
both hands, looking into the clear liquid. It was quiet now, the silence 
rich with companionship, and neither of them felt any need to break it. 
They had talked for hours, and Sinclair had not realised how much he had 
missed Delenn. Not until she was no longer there. Many were the times 
that he had wished for her council on Minbar. It was, he realised, 
almost the first time in a year that he had found some time to be alone 
with a friend, without one of the ever present Sadaelathi being there. 
He had persuaded Imindor that he was in no danger here in Delenn's 
suite, and she had consented to go and see to the rest of  the 
Sadaelathi settled in their quarters in the Minbari guest wing. He stole 
a glance at her. Although he was aware of her transformation, he had not 
seen her before he arrived. Her appearance had been a shock, but a 
pleasant one, her eerie beauty at times breathtaking.

He had a question. He could feel it rising, had felt it forming for a 
long time now. With Imindor gone, and Delenn here, it was perhaps the 
only time he would have to ask it, and perhaps get an answer. He shifted 
on the divan, leaning forward to run his fingers round the rim of the 
glass. Delenn smiled, a little, secretive smile, raising her eyes to 
his. He smiled back. Caught in the act, he thought. She's as bad as 
Imindor for reading me sometimes.

'You have a question, Jeffrey?' she asked, sipping from her drink.

He nodded. 'Tell me about the Sadaelathi,' he said simply.

Her face became a composed mask, the Minbari half of her rising up 
completely over the human half. Not quite though, Sinclair noticed. She 
chewed her lower lip, ever so slightly. She sipped again, then said, ' 
Why do you ask?'

'They have a secret, I think. A past that they hide from me. They serve 
me single-mindedly. So much so that it frightens me sometimes. I find 
them honourable, trustworthy, and selfless, superb warriors. They would 
kill for me or die for me in an instant I think. But at times I think 
that I am the only person to think this way of them. They receive 
nothing but contempt from the warrior caste, and it seems as if there is 
a conspiracy of silence surrounding them.' He paused, picking up his 
glass and toying with it, hesitating. Then he carried on. 'Imindor has 
talked of a penance served for a thousand years.' Delenn started at 
that, a slight tightening of her hands around her glass was all, but he 
saw it. 'What does it mean? Who are they? Where do they come from, and 
what do they see in me?' He stopped then, abruptly, afraid that he had 
said too much, and feeling as though he had betrayed a trust that 
Imindor had placed in him.

Delenn sipped from her glass. 'So many questions, Jeffrey,' she said, 
and Sinclair knew that she was stalling. He bided his time though, and 
was proven right. 'I can tell you this much,' she said finally. 'The 
Sadaelath are the Heartguard. During the last war against the Shadows, 
they warded Valen, who was called the Sa'Draan Minbari, Heart of the 
People. He was a great prophet and leader, of that there is no doubt, 
but he was no warrior. It is said that he always seemed unaware of the 
danger he was sometimes in, so much so that it seemed he had no 
awareness of his body or the harm that could come to it. So it was 
decided to create a bodyguard for him, to keep him safe in battle. For 
he was invariably there at the forefront of the fighting, lending heart 
to the armies in the darkest days of that war when it seemed the Shadows 
were nigh on invincible. The Sadaelathi were drawn from all the warrior 
clans, the best that there were, and possibly the best that there will 
ever be.' She paused, drinking again from her glass. 'But they failed. 
They failed to ward him as they were supposed to. He disappeared towards 
the end of the war. There was heavy fighting in a star system that the 
Shadows had claimed as their own. Valen was there as always, and then 
suddenly, at the end of the battle, he was gone. Just gone. No one knew 
when, no one knew to where. No trace of his body, nothing. No one knew 
what had happened, but people knew whom to blame.'

'The Sadaelathi', breathed Sinclair.

'The Sadaelathi,' affirmed Delenn. 'They had been entrusted with his 
safety, and now he was gone. The warrior clans turned their backs on 
their brethren, exiling them and their progeny until the end of time. 
They became clanless, and with no one to guard, with no purpose, they 
threw themselves into the war with a reckless disregard. They won 
victory after victory, but with such savagery and single-mindedness that 
it was said that people would rather face the Shadows than fight 
alongside the Black Guard, as they came to be known.' She stopped again, 
drinking, pondering what to say next. Sinclair held his breath, 
unwilling to disturb her in any way. 'Then, finally, it was one of their 
own which pulled them back from the brink. Their commander, Janandor, 
reminded them that Valen above all had been a prophet, and had foreseen 
a day not only when the Shadows would rise again, but when he himself 
would return. And the Sadaelath should be there for him on that day. He 
pulled them out of the war, and went before the Grey Council. He 
demanded that they witness the oath that the Sadaelathi were prepared to 
take, and demanded that it be spoken, with a Vorlon in attendance, over 
the Triluminary.' Her eyes flicked away from his for a moment, as if 
ashamed of the word. An image flashed through his mind. Dim light. Pain. 
A cowled figure that held up a device before him. Flashed through his 
mind and was gone. He felt no pain anymore over it, and he smiled at 
her, motioning her to continue. She smiled back gratefully.

'The Council duly witnessed the surviving Sadaelathi's oath. And it was 
a terrible one in many ways. When it was spoken, the Council protested, 
saying that the Sadaelathi were in effect damning themselves, isolating 
themselves from society. The oath was...' She stopped, then continued. 
'The oath was to stand watch for the return of Valen, for however long 
that might be, and to serve him on his return. They would stand guard, 
accepting the banishment from the warrior clans. They would accept the 
blame, their penance eternal vigilance, exile, and damnation in the eyes 
of many. They would draw apart from Minbari society, form their own 
traditions and codes. And they would keep close to themselves the 
knowledge of their failure. And that knowledge was kept bright, because 
they passed it on, father and mother to son or daughter, down through 
the years until today.' Sinclair frowned at that, then the realisation 
dawned on him, and he raised shocked eyes to Delenn. 'Yes. The 
Sadaelathi that serve you are the direct descendants of those that 
served Valen. The burden has been passed down, the failure of the 
parents the children's to rectify.' She paused, then said gently. 'You 
are their hope of redemption, Jeffrey.' He had never thought that mere 
words could carry weight, but at that moment he discovered that they 
did. Those words settled on him like a mountain. The Sadaelathi had a 
saying, he knew. Responsibility is a cloak of stone. Right then, 
Sinclair felt that cloak, felt it dragging at his shoulders. Another 
responsibility that he did not ask for. 'For a thousand years, they have 
waited for you, for the Council to name another. They dare not fail 
again.'

Sinclair raised haunted eyes to Delenn. 'I have asked the Council. Asked 
them directly, asked them indirectly. They will not answer me. So I ask 
you. As my friend, answer true. Am I Valen? His... reincarnation. You 
say that I have the soul of a Minbari. Could it be... could it be...' He 
could not finish, almost ashamed of himself for asking such a question, 
terrified that he had caused offence.

'Could it be his?' Delenn finished for him. Sinclair nodded. Delenn put 
down her glass, shook her head. 'I do not know, Jeffrey. As your friend, 
I answer truly. I do not know. The Council...' She looked aside for a 
moment, into her own pain. 'The Council is closed to me, now. I have no 
way of knowing what they think, or how they come to the decisions they 
make. But I was there, Jeffrey, when we made the discovery. You have a 
Minbari soul. Who's? That I do not know.'

There was one thing that Sinclair seized upon, desperate to have that 
responsibility taken from him. 'You said that Valen was named Sa'Draan 
Minbari. But the Council have named me Sa'Shy Alyt. And I do not even 
know what it means, or what it means to them.'

Delenn looked at him, and Sinclair fancied that it was sorrow that he 
saw in her eyes. 'Valen was indeed called the Heart of the People. But 
in the dominant warrior caste dialect of the day, it was slightly 
different. Sa'Shy Alyt meant, and still does, for the Sadaelathi still 
speak that dialect, Captain of Captains. No one has borne that title in 
a thousand years. The warrior clans have kept it, bestowing it on no 
one.' She paused again, and this time he could plainly see the conflict 
that made her wait, and consider whether or not to carry on. 'The 
warrior clans anger at its being given again is considerable, especially 
as you are human. But,' she said, in a sigh weighted with sorrow, 'the 
Council, in its wisdom, ordered it so. It is a title, Jeffrey. Only a 
title. Not necessarily a statement of fact.'

Sinclair sighed. 'One of the highest, if not the highest, in Minbari 
esteem. They would not have given it without reason.' Delenn bowed her 
head in acceptance of his logic, but having nothing to add, said 
nothing. Sinclair sat quietly for a while, stunned by what Delenn had 
told him. A small corner of his mind whispered that he should never have 
asked. Not about Valen, not about the Sadaelathi. But he disagreed with 
it. It was important that he know what the Sadaelathi saw in him, and 
why they were willing to die for him. No one should be ignorant of the 
reasons that pushed people to make your fight their fight, to make 
common cause with you, to lay down their life for you.

'There is another thing as well, Jeffrey,' said Delenn, interrupting his 
thoughts. 'The Sadaelathi are...special...in another way. When they were 
first formed, Valen made a request. That if he was to have a guard, then 
they must be attuned to him in ways that no amount of training could 
prepare them to be. Thus,' she said, pausing, as if deciding whether to 
go on, 'the Sadaelathi, when they were formed, were all empaths. All of 
them.'

Sinclair nodded to himself. It was one revelation after another here. He 
shook his head, looking up at Delenn..

'Then that means that the Sadaelathi that guard me...' He tailed off, 
wanting Delenn to finish, needing her to finish.

'Are empaths as well. All of them.' Her eyes were very dark, her face 
framed by the wings of her hair.

Many things became clear then to him. The way that the Sadaelathi had 
always seemed so attuned to him, reading his moods and his emotions so 
easily, even though he was a human So now he knew their secret, and it 
did not make their commitment any easier to bear. He felt that cloak of 
stone weighing down heavier than ever. Felt the corner of his mind where 
the names of those who had died were listed. Does the cloak ever get any 
lighter? he asked himself. He had not realised that he had spoken out 
loud until Delenn answered him.

'Not until you die.'

* * *

The shanty bar was dimly lit, and stank of cheap beer and stale sweat. 
At this time of night it was almost empty. Vaguely defined figures 
huddled over rickety tables, and it was impossible to tell if they were 
human or alien. A low murmur of conversation filled the air. Garibaldi 
looked around as he stepped through the low door, holding aside the 
tatty curtains that framed it. He saw the one he was looking for, over 
in a corner, and began walking towards him. He held back a grimace of 
distaste as, with every step, his shoes stuck slightly to the beer that 
had spilled and dried on the floor. He stood in front of the man he had 
come to  find, blocking out most of what little light there was until 
the man looked up from the game of Solitaire that he was playing on the 
scarred and filthy table. His face was expressionless as he took in the 
Security Chief clad in nondescript browns and grays, and with day old 
shadow darkening his jaws. He nodded and gestured to one of the chairs 
that circled the table. Garibaldi sat down gingerly as the chair 
threatened to give under his weight, and rested his arms on the table. 
The man returned his attention to the game, turning over a couple of 
cards, but Garibaldi could tell that a dead end had been reached. The 
man realised it too, and gathered all his cards together, shuffling them 
competently. He was still able to shuffle, the Security Chief saw, even 
after that beating he had taken that had almost killed him and smashed 
his left hand. He raised his eyes to Garibaldi.

'Chief,' he nodded. 'Been a long time.'

'Yeah,' agreed Garibaldi. He looked closer at the man. 'You look 
terrible, Jules.'

The man grimaced. 'Why thank you, Chief.' He looked down at his cards, 
and shuffled again. 'Mirror, mirror, on the wall,' he said softly, and 
smiled sadly to himself. 'Ain't been sleeping well lately. Lots of bad 
dreams,' he said quietly. He looked up at the dim bar. His eyes, framed 
by heavy, grey bags, drooped with exhaustion. 'Ain't the only one, 
neither.' He turned back to Garibaldi. 'What can I do for you, Chief?'

Garibaldi leaned closer. 'I need some information,' he said quietly.

* * *

 'I cannot, I cannot,' she sobbed, jerking back from the airlock and 
stumbling into the arms of one of the Sadaelathi. 'I'm sorry.' Her voice 
was little more than a whisper.

Sinclair shook his head, smiling at her. 'It's OK. Don't worry. You have 
already told us much.' Imindor cycled the airlock shut, cutting off the 
harsh glare of the docking bay lights. In the dimness of the Ylliann's 
interior, the small figure cradled in the Sadaelathi's arms seemed 
little more than a child, a shivering bundle in the warrior's black 
robed arms. It was a stunning reversal of the poised Minbari Sinclair 
had met but a few days ago. Imindor came and knelt beside him. He 
avoided looking at her, afraid that she would see his new knowledge of 
her shining there like a beacon, and he knew that she would never accept 
his sympathy.

'I thought, I thought that perhaps it might have faded.' The small 
Minbari's voice was thin, almost dreamlike, with a meandering tone. 
'That I might have been able to get used to it. But it is as bad as 
ever. Like a knife through me.' The thin voice faded even more, becoming 
little more than a whisper. 'Darkness,' she breathed. 'Such darkness, 
and such pain. This place is doomed, how can it be otherwise?' her voice 
tailed off, and she was asleep. Sinclair shivered, remembering another 
such woman who had told him the same thing. Imindor motioned to the 
Sadaelathi, and the warrior rose with the frail body in his arms and 
bore her deeper into the ship. He returned moments later.

'How has she been?' asked Imindor.

'She sleeps much of the time,' the Sadaelathi, Dessebar, answered. 'It 
is never a good sleep. She wakes from nightmares all the time, and 
always the same. Dreams of darkness and fire, of a door through which 
all the evil in the world pours like water, of the destruction of this 
place, of a hand reaching across the stars.' The warrior shook his head. 
It was plain that he was disturbed by it. 'She never remembers the 
dreams though, and when she is awake, she stares out onto the dock for 
hours on end.'

Imindor steepled her fingers, as if readying herself to pray, and 
pressed them to her forehead. She looked at Sinclair. 'How much longer 
can they remain here?'

He shook his head. 'I can't say. It's not that it's illegal to stay 
aboard your ship, but it is unusual. It's been two days now, and 
Security will notice eventually and start asking questions. When that 
happens...' He stopped, and shrugged. 'Who can tell? Perhaps Michael can 
arrange something for us.'

'No,' said Imindor. We want no undue attention paid here. Come, we 
should leave.' They turned to go, Imindor saying something in Minbari to 
Dessebar. The warrior bowed to Sinclair, hand to breast, heart, and 
forehead. Sinclair activated the device around his neck while the lock 
cycled open. Thus it was that two Minbari left the ship, walking out 
into the docking bay lights and noise of the station, their feet echoing 
hollowly on the steel deck, the lock swinging shut behind them. There 
was a far off throb and clank of machinery, and above them the air 
conditioning units stuttered into sudden life. The Minbari on the ship 
might not be of the use to them that they had hoped she might be, but 
Sinclair had not lied when he told her that she had revealed much to 
them. Darkness and fire. There was something going on here, of that 
Sinclair was certain. They had come here without any real idea of what 
it was that they were looking for, but it seemed that they had found 
something much bigger than they expected. He prayed that Garibaldi would 
come up with something soon.

End of Part Five


From: "Luke McCallin" <woggo@bih.net.ba>
Subject: A Cloak of Stone Part 6
Date: Fri, 22 Oct 1999 18:14:02 +00

Dear All

On with the show. After the quiet moments of the last few parts, things 
start hotting up from now on...!

Thanks again to all of you who have taken the time to write to me with 
their comments. It is all much appreciated.

So, without further ado...

Cheers

Luke
3D3D3D3D
Disclaimer: Babylon 5 and its associated characters are the property of 
J. Michael Straczynski, Warner Bros, and TNT. All else is (c) and 
belongs to Luke McCallin

A Cloak of Stone

Part Six

It was three days after their first meeting before Garibaldi called for 
another one. Three days of asking carefully phrased questions, of 
discreet backchecking of files and registries, of cross checking ships 
and passenger manifests, of wandering through areas he did not normally 
go to, just on the offchance. He learnt a lot. Some of it useless, much 
of it circumstantial, bits of it very useful. And one or two gems, 
nuggets of pure gold.

It had been hard work, fitting in the investigating required around his 
normal duties, making sure that Zack suspected nothing, as well as all 
the other Nightwatch in Security. He had not seen Sinclair during those 
three days. He knew that the Ambassador had been out and about from the 
Security station that guarded Green Sector - they told him that all of 
the Adepts had been out into the station at varying times in varying 
numbers. And he knew that more often than not, they headed into 
Downbelow, and it had been hard enough tracking them that far. He knew 
that they were soldiers of some kind, Sinclair's guard, and they moved 
like wraiths when they wanted to and too often they vanished completely, 
like morning mist burnt away by the rising sun. Garibaldi did not like 
it, losing people like that on his station, not one bit.

On the evening of the third night, they met again in Delenn's quarters. 
Sheridan, Ivanova, Sinclair, unobtrusive Lennier and the ever watchful 
Imindor. Garibaldi waited until they had been served drinks, then 
launched into his report.

'Well, for the first thing, Jeff, your information that April was the 
first time Trafford came aboard was right. So was your hunch that it was 
not the only time. He's been through here three times, the first in 
April 2259, then in May, and the third time was in December. Whereupon 
he left on a Drazi ship that was ostensibly making a run to one of their 
outer colonies but was, I would imagine, carrying supplies for that base 
on Chamarra.' Sinclair nodded at that. At least some things were 
starting to fall into place.

'Now, in April, he came in on a liner from Orion 7, and he left on a 
liner headed for the Freehold. He came back through here in May of last 
year, and that's an interesting date.' Everyone there nodded - the death 
of the Centauri emperor and the beginning of the war that was to end in 
the Narn's utter defeat. 'He left on a Centauri ship making a run 
through what was then the Narn-Centauri border.' Sinclair and Imindor 
looked at each other, and the Ambassador mouthed; Polastas. She nodded, 
and they both turned back to what Garibaldi was saying. 'His final visit 
was in December, when he left on that Drazi ship.'

There was a moment of silence while Garibaldi gathered his thoughts, 
then resumed speaking. 'It's the May date that is the most interesting,' 
he said. 'Not only does it coincide with the declaration of war between 
the Narn and the Centauri, but it also coincides with the arrival on 
station of a mutual friend of ours.' At this he looked at the Captain 
and Delenn, who returned his level gaze with puzzled looks of their own. 
'Our friend Mr. Morden was also on the station at that time.'

Sheridan's face went tight at that name, and Delenn looked worriedly at 
him. For all four of them, Sheridan, Delenn, Ivanova and Garibaldi, 
Morden represented someone who had made them see sides of each other 
that they were not proud of. Garibaldi had the feeling that for 
Sheridan, Morden was an open wound, one that he longed to heal but was 
unable to. The Security Chief did not fully understand all the nuances 
in that, and to be quite frank, he did not wish to either. Sinclair 
leant forward.

'Morden?' he asked.

Garibaldi pursed his lips, flicking a glance at Sheridan. There was a 
lot of ancient history here that he did not know if the Captain really 
wanted stirred up. But it was Sheridan who raised his head and answered. 
'Morden is, we believe...' He stopped, looking at Delenn. 'We know, is a 
human agent for the Shadows,' he finished. 'He has come here several 
times in the last few years. He...' He stopped then, his face a composed 
mask, but it seemed Sinclair had heard all he needed to hear, and sat 
back, waiting for Garibaldi.

The Security Chief continued. 'Putting this all together was a pain, and 
a lot of it is conjecture, but we all know that there was something 
weird about the way the Centauri were able to beat the Narn so easily, 
starting with their colony in Quadrant 14, and ending with that battle 
at Gorash 7. And we all know that Morden works for the Shadows, that he 
is an emissary of sorts. And he was here in May. I think,' he paused, 
gathering himself, 'I think that he offered Shadow aid to the Centauri, 
to Londo in particular.' Faces were starting to withdraw a little and, 
fearing that he was not making much sense, Garibaldi pressed on. 'When I 
thought about it, I backtracked on Morden's comings and goings as well. 
He's been a busy boy, starting with two visits two years ago, the last 
one just before Santiago was killed and before that Narn outpost was 
destroyed. Then last year, he crops up in January, and he stays for a 
few days. That visit coincides with G'kar's return, his belief that some 
ancient race was rising, and the destruction of a Narn warship on the 
Rim, and then he's gone again. Back he comes in May, things go boom, and 
he's gone again. But that one makes no sense.' He stopped for a moment, 
looking around at the group. 'Am I making any sense?' he asked 
plaintively.

Sheridan nodded his head slowly. 'Yes Mr. Garibaldi, you are. I can't 
imagine why none of us did not see any of this before?' he said, looking 
at Delenn. She seemed withdrawn on herself, and would not meet the 
Captain's eyes. Composing his thoughts, Garibaldi carried on.

'So, he turns up when the war starts, and when Trafford is here. Now 
what makes no sense is that in May, although I said that he was here, 
there is no record of Morden having come onto the station, and neither 
is there a record of him leaving it. I did a little digging around, and 
I found out that he has a suite of rooms permanently booked under the 
name, Dermon. I showed the manager a photo, and she said she knew him. 
She confirmed that the rooms were in use by him during May.' He stopped. 
'And they were also in use in August, and in November.' Heads started at 
that, particularly Sheridan's. 'But there is no record of him coming or 
going.' Garibaldi looked around the assembled faces. 'So how is he 
getting on and off the station?'

It was Delenn who spoke. 'Perhaps the question to ask is not how he is 
moving around, but what he was doing here all those times?'

No one else answered, and he had not expected anyone to do so, not until 
he had finished. 'Back to Trafford. I have a contact, a man by the name 
of Jules Laugier. He's a Lurker. Hooked on gambling, always makes enough 
to get by, even enough to get away, but seems to like it out here. He's 
OK as Lurkers go. Because people like him, and because he's harmless, 
they talk to him. I went to see him on the offchance that he might know 
something. It seems that he knew Trafford, or at least met him twice in 
May. And he said that he found it hard to believe that it was the same 
man, so much had Trafford changed the second time. The first time 
Trafford came to him looking for an initial contact, some kind of 
introduction into the rumour mill here. It was in one of those shanty 
bars the Lurkers are always setting up in Downbelow. Anyway, he says 
that Trafford was quiet, reserved, one of those big silent types. They 
talked, and when Trafford left, he said he was going further into 
Downbelow to a couple of people that Laugier recommended he see. Well, 
he never made it to them. Laugier followed up with the people he had 
recommended Trafford see. He said that they told him he never met with 
them. The second time, a few days later, not only did Trafford not seem 
to remember who Laugier was, but it seemed that his character had become 
the complete opposite of what it was before. Laugier says that there was 
a palpable menace about the guy, that he seemed to be running a fever, 
that he was brusque and short tempered. And that he was very, very 
dangerous.'

Ivanova spoke up at that. 'For someone who just met this guy twice he 
sure remembers a lot about him.'

Garibaldi nodded. 'Yeah, well that second time Trafford almost killed 
him. Beat the crap out of him for some unknown reason. Him and three 
others in the bar.' He stopped again, taking a deep breath. 'Laugier 
also told me he saw someone else in Downbelow, the same day that he met 
Trafford for the first time. Just the once, but it was remarkable enough 
to make him remember it. A man, in a suit, walking alone down one of the 
most unused corridors on the station. Says he stuck out like a sore 
thumb. He got a pretty good look at him, and it was none other than our 
friend Mr. Morden.' Sheridan's face went rock hard, his mouth a grim 
slash. Delenn looked stunned. Implications were all of a sudden 
beginning to sink in, to become graspable and reasonable. Like pieces of 
some jigsaw, the picture was there but the whole image remained 
unformed, tantalising them, refusing to come together. But Garibaldi was 
still not finished. 'Laugier has a friend who also saw Morden. I spoke 
to him as well. He told me he saw Morden, but not alone. It was not far 
from where Laugier first saw him, and it was just after he had been 
beaten. Morden was talking to Trafford.' Garibaldi stopped. There was 
one more thing that he had to tell them, but he waited a moment, giving 
everyone a chance to deal with what he had been saying. 'Morden and 
Trafford were both seen in the same part of the station.'

Sheridan jerked his head up at that. He knew, Garibaldi saw, before 
everyone else. His eyes locked with the Captain's, and he nodded.

'The Triangle,' said Sheridan. Sinclair's gaze narrowed, and he turned 
to Garibaldi with the question in his eyes.

'The Triangle is part of the station where things are supposed to go 
bump in the night.' Out of the corner of his eye, Garibaldi saw Ivanova 
toss her head slightly in frustration. 'No one really knows what it is, 
Jeff,' he hurried on. 'It was a source of rumour while you were 
commander, but nothing more than that. Just a place Lurkers liked to 
scare themselves with. Then, last year, the Captain had an experience 
down there that got me thinking that maybe there was something to those 
rumours, and I've been keeping an eye on it ever since. Every now and 
then the rumours fire up and start flying around again. They die down, 
and then they start again.' He looked at Sheridan, as if asking his 
permission to continue. The Captain nodded, and as succinctly as 
possible, Garibaldi related the tale of what had happened to Sheridan, 
about his encounter with the Markab in the Triangle.

'I wonder,' said Imindor suddenly, 'if these rumours start when this Mr. 
Morden arrives on the station? However it is that he gets here. And I 
wonder what kind of dreams these Lurkers have at those times.' With that 
she lapsed back into silence, but Garibaldi saw frowns and introspection 
on all the faces there. It was interesting, connecting the rumours to 
Morden, but unproveable he thought. But what was that about dreams? 
Jules said something about dreams, Garibaldi suddenly remembered. 
Sinclair and Imindor exchanged what in anyone's book was a very 
meaningful glance, then he looked at Garibaldi.

'Is that it?' he asked quietly. The Security Chief nodded, and Sinclair 
sat back slowly into the divan. He looked like a man winded and trying 
to catch his breath. 'Thank you, Michael. I hadn't hoped for anything 
like as much as you found. I... I must confess that I don't know what to 
make of it all myself.' He tailed off then.

'Why don't we sleep on it,' suggested Sheridan. 'Look at it tomorrow in 
a new light.'

'I do not think that that would be wise, Captain,' said Imindor. 
'Already it has been nearly five days since we arrived, and this the 
second time you have visited the Ambassador's guests. People will start 
to suspect things if this goes on too long.' She looked at Sinclair, and 
this time it seemed as if she were the one asking permission to do 
something. Sinclair nodded, and turned to the assembled group.

'There is something else.' A ripple of sound went up then from all 
assembled, a collective bracing of spirits in the face of what was 
already deeply disturbing news. Sinclair avoided Garibaldi's eyes. I 
knew it, thought the Security Chief, I knew there was something else. 
'Someone else, as a matter of fact. On the Ylliann, there is a Minbari 
we brought with us. A True Seer.' Delenn gasped. Plainly she had not 
known of this. The faces of the three command staff looked expectantly 
at Sinclair for an explanation. He tried to give it. 'A True Seer is a 
kind of telepath. They see beyond what you or I normally would. They see 
moods, nuances, things that are sometimes hidden in plain sight are 
visible to True Seers. They see deeper than you or I can, and to a 
lesser extent, they can read the future by reading what they see in the 
present. We brought one with us in the hope that if all else failed, 
perhaps she might have been some help.' He paused, gathering himself for 
the next part. 'Since we arrived, she has not left the Ylliann. She has 
been unable to. Contact with the station causes her acute pain. She 
dreams, vivid dreams.' He turned to Imindor as he said this, as if 
needing her to back up what it was he was saying, and then looked at 
Garibaldi. 'Dreams of fire and darkness, a door through which all evil 
flows, a hand reaching out across the stars, the destruction of Babylon 
5,' he finished quietly. Sheridan started up at that. 'It seems that we 
need her more than ever now. We need to get her onto the station, out of 
the ship, in order to use her talent.'

'You need to get her into Downbelow, and into the Triangle.' That from 
Ivanova.

'Agreed,' said Sinclair. 'The question is how though, if she cannot 
stand to be off the ship.'

There was a silence while everyone thought it out. It was Ivanova who 
again broke the silence. 'Could it be as simple as carrying her? That 
way she need not have any physical contact with the station.'

Sinclair's and Imindor's faces went blank, then he turned and looked at 
her incredulously. 'Could it be done?' he asked quietly.

She shook her head. 'I do not know, Sa'Shy Alyt,' she replied. 'But we 
have nothing to lose by trying.' Sinclair nodded. 'I will contact 
Dessebar on the ship, then. Have him prepare her to leave.' She rose to 
her feet, and bowed her head to the assembled group. 'If you will excuse 
me,' she said, and flowed out of the room, her robes a dark blue wake 
behind her. Garibaldi watched her go, wondering if this was the first 
time that Sinclair was left alone and unguarded by her. His eyes roved 
over the room, and he almost jumped in his chair. In a corner, in the 
gloom, so still that Garibaldi might have looked that way three times 
and not seen anything, was a Sadaelathi. The warrior was looking at him, 
as if reading Garibaldi's thoughts. Just looking, then he flicked his 
eyes away. Garibaldi shivered. They unnerved him as few things did, 
these Sadaelathi. Made him feel on edge and out of control. He shook 
himself mentally, and turned his attention back to the meeting. Sheridan 
was speaking.

'...wait then until Imindor contacts us with arrangements.' He stopped 
and looked at Sinclair. 'Ambassador, excuse me for asking, but how much 
longer can you be away from Minbar without Earth knowing? I would 
imagine that it's been nearly a week now.'

Sinclair nodded. 'The cover is that I am being taken on a tour of the 
merchant holdings of one of the big trading clans. It will hold for 
another three days. Ideally, I need to be away from here at the latest 
the day after tomorrow. It won't matter that much if I am a day late 
back to Minbar.'

At that point, Imindor returned, and took her place next to Sinclair. 
'It is done,' she said. 'Dessebar will bring her to the quarters where 
the Sadaelathi are housed.'

'When?' asked Sheridan.

'Now,' said Imindor.

'Now?' said several voices at once.

'What other time is better? It is late, there will be few people about. 
In any case, no one will see us. Time presses heavily.' Imindor looked 
at each of the command staff with those huntress eyes. No one 
contradicted her. It was Sheridan who spoke next, running his hands 
through his hair and scrubbing them over his face.

'She's right. It is late. And none of us can afford to go running around 
in Downbelow. Whatever you find down there,' he said, fixing Imindor 
with his gaze, 'I trust that you will communicate to us as well. I want 
no secrets among us.' Imindor held his eyes, and the two of them stared 
at each other for a moment. It was Imindor who stopped it though, bowing 
her head to him.

'It shall be as you say, Shy Alyt,' she murmured.

Sheridan nodded. 'I think that we should go now,' he said to Ivanova and 
Garibaldi. All three rose to their feet. Sheridan looked at Sinclair. 
'Do you have a way of contacting us in an emergency?'

Sinclair nodded. 'The communicators that the Sadaelathi use are capable 
of tapping into the link system.'

'Good.' Sheridan turned to Garibaldi. 'Michael, can you arrange for a 
private channel on the links, just for the three of us, for use in 
emergency?'

The Security Chief nodded his head thoughtfully. 'Yeah, I think so. I'll 
have to work on them in my quarters, though. It's not the kind of thing 
that I can do in Security Central. You'd better give them to me now,' he 
said, envisaging another late night. 'You have your spares?' he said to 
Ivanova and Sheridan as they peeled of their links. Both nodded. 'I'll 
get them back as soon as I can.'

'Then that's it then,' said Sheridan. 'Inform Mr. Garibaldi when you are 
prepared to begin,' he said to Sinclair. 'And inform me as soon as you 
are finished. Commander, Mr. Garibaldi?' They both nodded that they were 
ready to leave, and he turned to the others. 'Goodnight, and good 
hunting.'

With that, they took their leave of Delenn, and left. Those they left 
behind looked at each other in silence for a moment. It was Imindor who 
spoke first.

'Come, Sa'Shy Alyt, we must prepare for tonight.'

Sinclair stifled a yawn, nodded and rose from the divan. His jaw rasped 
as he rubbed his hand across it. Must be later than I realised, he 
thought. He turned to Delenn, and bowed his head in thanks to her, then 
took the device, which looked like a necklace of dark metal, that 
Imindor handed him. He fastened the thin strip by its magnetic clasp 
around his neck, and activated it. The air seemed to shimmer slightly 
around his head, and his face vanished, replaced by the smooth, high 
forehead and bonecrest of a Minbari. Only the eyes remained the same, 
those soft brown orbs unmistakable to one who knew him. A last look at 
Delenn, then he was gone out the door, led and trailed by Sadaelathi. 
Delenn remained standing for a long while, hands clasped in 
contemplation to her lips.

End of Part Six

From: "Luke McCallin" <woggo@bih.net.ba>
Subject: A Cloak of Stone Part Seven
Date: Sat, 23 Oct 1999 12:27:30 +00

Dear All

Here is part seven. This one is bit enormous, but there was no way to 
really break it down. To those of you who make it through, well done!

I hope that you all enjoy it. Comments welcome as ever.

Cheers

Luke
3D3D3D
Disclaimer: Babylon 5 and its associated characters are the property of 
J. Michael Straczynski, Warner Bros, and TNT. All else is (c) and 
belongs to Luke McCallin

A Cloak of Stone

Part Seven

Dressed once again in a suit of impact armour, Sinclair sat by himself 
in the Sadaelathi's quarters, awaiting the arrival of the True Seer. 
Absentmindedly, he toyed with the visor that would enable him to see the 
others when the cloaking devices they all wore activated the camouflage 
polymers in their suits of impact armour. His mind was empty of thought, 
a blank sheet around which the events and words of the last few days 
whirled but refused to settle. He could concentrate on nothing, make 
little sense of anything, and he remembered feeling this way on the 
shuttle flight down to Chamarra. Around him, the warriors sat or talked 
quietly, attired as he was save for the fighting gloves and sleeve guns 
they all wore, compact blasters contained in a cowling on their right 
wrists. Imindor had allowed Sinclair a pistol. Two of them sat listening 
to a datalink that they had tapped into the Security network, monitoring 
the traffic among the Security guards and patrols on the station. A 
signal went through them, and all of them straightened, looking towards 
the doorway.

The door swung up and open, and Imindor stepped inside. The door swung 
shut behind her and the air next to her suddenly shimmered. A figure 
seemed to materialise out of nothing, a black armoured Sadaelathi that 
cradled a slender, similarly attired form. Sinclair rose to his feet 
with the rest of the warriors, an icy fist of anticipation suddenly 
seizing his gut and tightening his throat. The figure in Dessebar's arms 
stirred, and frightened eyes peered out at the room from where they had 
been buried in the crock of the warrior's shoulder. Sinclair stepped 
closer, Sadaelathi moving away to give him room. On closer examination, 
the eyes of the True Seer were not merely frightened, they were 
terrified, and glazed over with a kind of withdrawal that Sinclair had 
never seen. His heart went out to her, to her bravery, and he could only 
guess at what she was feeling. But she could help him. She had to help 
him. He felt for that part of him that had turned to stone on Chamarra, 
and he embraced it. This was the part of him that would see him through 
the darkness and fire ahead of him. The part of him that would use 
others in the struggle, the part of him that would give the orders that 
would send others to their deaths. The part of him that others expected 
to see, and the part of him that those like the Sadaelathi needed. 
However alien this part of him was even to himself, for the first time 
he embraced it, and he felt a peculiar dislocation as he did so. As if 
part of him had been shunted aside to a corner of his mind, and a new 
part had taken its place. It was strange yet familiar, and not a little 
frightening.

Imindor spoke in her warrior dialect, and another Sadaelathi stepped 
forward to take the True Seer from Dessebar's arms. Dessebar stepped 
back, a shrugging and loosening of his shoulders the only sign of the 
effort that he must have put in carrying the True Seer this far.

Sinclair spoke her name softly as the True Seer's eyes seemed to clear, 
and she looked around at her surroundings. 'Calesine,' he said softly. 
'How are you?'

Her voice seemed to come from far away, as from down an infinite tunnel. 
'I am filled with the stench of this place. The station, the evil, it is 
everywhere.' The eyes glazed with fear and pain again.

Sinclair dampened the instinctive sympathy that he felt for her. He had 
a duty to perform, and she could help him to do it. But it was hard, and 
Sinclair did not think that it would ever get any easier. 'Calesine, do 
you know what it is that we need you to do?'

She looked at him through fogged eyes. For a moment, it seemed to 
Sinclair as if she was seeing through him, to the part of him that was 
stone and would use anyone. Her gaze cleared suddenly, the fog lifting 
as if from hollows lit by the sun. Cleared, the force of her gaze was 
stunning in its clarity, and she looked at him with her head cocked in 
that position that Sinclair had been unable to decipher. A bird 
regarding its prey or a bit of bright metal on a green lawn. 'You wish 
me to lead you into a part of the station that is important to you, and 
See,' she said simply. Sinclair nodded. That was it in essence, nothing 
else. 'You wish it done now,' she continued.

Sinclair nodded again. 'Is there anything that we can do to make things 
easier for you?'

Calesine shook her head, still pinning Sinclair with that bird-bright 
gaze. 'Anything that might block the stench of this place will also 
block my talent, and I would then be of little use to you. This,' she 
turned and looked at the Sadaelathi that held her, 'is adequate for what 
we must do.' Her eyes retained their clarity as she finished speaking, 
for which Sinclair was grateful. He needed her this way. He just wished 
that she would turn that gaze elsewhere, and that it did not seem as if 
she knew him inside out.

'Then I suggest that we proceed,' said Imindor. 'Time will not wait for 
us.' Imindor shrugged out of her midnight blue robes, and they fell in a 
dark pool around her feet. An unspoken signal seemed to pass through the 
assembled Heartguard, and one by one they activated their cloaking 
devices and shimmered from sight. None of them needed the eye piece that 
Sinclair lowered over his brow, all of them having implants that allowed 
them to see each other under the cloak. Imindor activated the devices on 
the True Seer's and her guardian's armour, and then it was just the two 
of them. They shared a long look, and then she said softly, 'Whatever 
happens, I will be close to you, Jeffrey.' Sinclair felt his breath 
catch momentarily in his throat. Funny, he thought, how a look can share 
a thousand meanings. Imindor motioned towards the device on Sinclair's 
armour. 'Now, Sa'Shy Alyt,' she said. He pressed the button on the 
cloaking device. The room stayed the same, as did the colours, but 
suddenly he was standing once again in the middle of black armoured 
figures. Imindor stood next to him, and then she seemed to shimmer 
slightly, just for a moment, and then her form was steady, and he knew 
that she too was under cloak now. Without a word being spoken, one of 
the Sadaelathi opened the door, stepping into the corridor. An all clear 
signal was flashed, and the troop moved swiftly into the corridor, 
Sinclair in the middle, and the door swung shut.

'Ready?' asked Imindor over the subvocal communicator. Sinclair nodded, 
having chosen the best route into Downbelow and the Triangle, and the 
two them moved up to the warrior on point, a female with a tight, 
scarred face named Onarion. Sinclair motioned her forward, looking back 
over his shoulder at the rest of the Sadaelathi. The warriors were 
spaced out along the corridor, keeping close as possible to the wall. It 
was easy going through Green Sector, the corridors empty. They passed 
the guard station carefully, one by one, with one Sadaelathi ready to 
stun the Security guards if needed. From there, they moved fast to a 
maintenance hatch that let them into the serviceways that ran parallel 
to the standard corridors and concourses. As he had hoped, the service 
corridors were all but deserted. There was one risky moment when 
Onarion, leading them around a corner stopped at the sight of two 
technicians coming towards them. All the Sadaelathi flattened themselves 
against the wall, but the two men walked on blithely by, unaware of the 
hard eyes that tracked them. Onarion led them away again, and Sinclair 
directed her to a maintenance elevator that he called using the Security 
override that Garibaldi had given him. The car took them down into the 
station, ending at its terminus deep in Babylon 5's hull, far below most 
of the inhabited levels, the open doors casting a rectangle of light 
onto the bare steel deck. Anyone seeing the elevator doors open would 
have seen an empty car, but in reality a line of Sadaelathi covered the 
doors, guns pointing out into a darkened and deserted corridor. Sinclair 
looked out over their shoulders into the bowels of his old station. Far 
down the corridor a pipe jetted intermittent clouds of steam. The air 
felt humid and clammy, and condensation dripped from the lintel of the 
elevator doorway and glistened in swathes on the walls where the 
lighting shone on it.

'Welcome to Downbelow,' he said quietly.

Calesine moaned softly in her armoured cradle.

Imindor motioned with her right hand, and Sadaelathi slid from the 
elevator into the corridor, taking up positions to right and left and in 
front. All clear whispers from the warriors came back to her, and she 
ordered the rest of the party out. She looked once at Sinclair, and he 
motioned straight ahead, down the dim corridor, and the Sadaelathi set 
out into Downbelow.

Within minutes, Sinclair was sweating heavily, despite the armour's 
attempts to keep him cool. The humidity was high, and breathing was like 
breathing in a steam filled room. None of the Sadaelathi made any 
complaint however, moving along with deathly quiet. There was one pause 
while another Heartguard took the True Seer from the one that had 
carried her thus far, then they moved on again. The corridor seemed to 
stretch endlessly ahead of them, with regular branchings to either side. 
The lighting was intermittent, in places bright, in others dim, in other 
stretches non-existent, the fittings gone out or long stolen by Lurkers. 
In places graffiti stretched along the walls, the colours almost 
assuredly bright and clashing, but rendered muted and dull under the 
tunnel's lighting. They passed no one on their way, as Sinclair had 
hoped. This being a maintenance tunnel, Security regularly checked for 
Lurker incursions and broke up any squatter camps or shanty bars. 
Garibaldi had told Sinclair that the last sweep had been three days ago, 
and the next scheduled for five days from now. He had been confident 
that no Lurkers would be there, and it seemed that he was right.

Through it all, the True Seer remained quiet, saying nothing, but her 
posture in the Sadaelathi's arms spoke volumes. She was terrified, but 
trying to hide it. Her eyes retained their clarity, for which Sinclair 
was grateful, but he was sure that it was costing her much not to 
withdraw into herself. He prayed once again that whatever it was that 
they might find, they find it quickly.

It took them perhaps ten minutes to walk the length of the corridor. It 
ended in a huge, circular red hatch that was swung shut and dogged, a 
peeling yellow maintenance sticker stuck over the lock. Sinclair stared 
at it for a moment, before turning to face the Sadaelathi.

'On the other side of this is another corridor. The second side corridor 
on the right will lead to the Triangle. We will be there in less than 
two minutes.' None of the Sadaelathi said anything at that. Sinclair 
caught Calesine's eyes. They were shockingly bright in the dimness, 
seeming almost to shine with their own light. Again, he felt that they 
saw right through him, and he turned away from the sympathy that he saw 
there. Two Sadaelathi spun the huge wheel lock on the hatch and it swung 
open, protesting loudly on its hinges. Wincing at the noise, Sinclair 
stared down the corridor that became visible across the decreasing 
crescent of the door's edge as it opened. No one. Onarion stepped over 
the bulkhead, followed by Sinclair and Imindor. He paused there while 
the Sadaelathi swarmed through. On the other side of the door, the wall 
was covered in a splash of lurid green graffiti. The warrior holding 
Calesine was last, and as he stepped through, her arm brushed the hatch. 
He saw her eyes widen as her head jerked back, and her mouth widened as 
if to scream. Imindor lunged forward as if to stop Calesine's mouth with 
her hand, but only a strangled sob escaped from the True Seer.

But there was something else. A sudden wash of images across Sinclair's 
mind, a wave of recurring symbols that his mind struggled to decipher, 
and all overlaid by the crimson tinge of stark terror. Darkness. Fire. 
The corridor awash in blood, tendrils of deepest black that swirled 
across the walls. Darkness. A hand reaching across the stars, and a 
darkness spreading, spreading, spreading to dim them. Darkness. Fire. 
The images cut off. Sinclair realised that they must only have lasted a 
second, but he gasped for air, slumped against the wall. Through tear 
blurred eyes, he saw that the assault on his mind had affected the 
Sadaelathi as well. Imindor shook her head as if to clear it, as did 
several of the Sadaelathi.

Sinclair made to speak, found that his mouth was strangely parched, 
swallowed and tried again. 'Wha...?' he managed.

It was Calesine who answered in a weak voice. 'I am sorry. It was me. I 
could not help it. It is the station, you see. I...' She trailed off, 
her eyelids fluttering closed. Sinclair reasoned it out. He knew that 
True Seers were a kind of telepath. He knew that contact with the 
station was painful for her. That brief touch on the door must have been 
too much, and she had broadcast her pain telepathically. He shook his 
head. The images were still there, but fading. But that overlay of 
terror remained. Her terror. What was it that was frightening her so? 
Did she even know herself? He looked at her with new respect for the 
effort she was putting in to hide her fear and to help them.

'Is it always this bad?' he asked softly.

Calesine nodded without opening her eyes. Almost, Sinclair was tempted 
to call it off, to return her to the ship and leave. Almost. Like 
prodding a bruise that you knew would hurt, Sinclair felt for that still 
raw, new part of him that was stone, and caressed it, giving himself to 
it, letting it give him strength for what he still had to do. He turned 
to Imindor, and nodded. The two of them walked up to Onarion, and the 
march continued. They turned down the second corridor on the right, 
walked a little way along it, then Sinclair motioned for Onarion to 
stop. He walked slightly ahead of her, looking down the tunnel. He felt 
nothing. The corridor was the same. Dull gray walls and floor, a smell 
of metal in the warm air, the far off clank of heavy machinery. He 
turned back to the Sadaelathi, and looked at Imindor.

'We're here,' he said.

They both turned to look at the True Seer. Calesine was sitting upright 
in the cradle of the Sadaelathi's arms, staring down the tunnel with 
those bird-bright eyes. Imindor motioned Sinclair to silence when he 
made to say something. For a moment there was quiet, then Calesine 
spoke, just one word.

'Forward.'

Obediently, Ebrebel, the warrior carrying her, began walking forward, 
and the rest of the party fell in behind him. Sinclair and Imindor 
flanked the warrior on either side, and they continued into the Triangle 
for perhaps a hundred metres, before the True Seer commanded a halt. 
They stooped at a crossing of tunnels. Calesine's head swung to the 
left, then to the right, straight ahead, then left and right again. 
Sinclair watched her closely. Her eyes retained that crystal clarity, 
but there was a blindness to them where before there had been the 
suggestion of depth. He noticed that she was trembling as well. Ever so 
slightly, but it was noticeable. After a moment, she spoke again.

'Right.'

The group turned down the corridor indicated. The air smelled dank here, 
and it was suddenly colder, clammier. Sinclair shivered, and felt a 
crawling sensation along his back, as though a thousand eyes watched him 
from the shadows. Despite himself, he turned round to look back. Only 
the Sadaelathi. The corridor carried on, but a new opening branched away 
on the right. Once again, Calesine commanded a halt, and stared down the 
new tunnel, as well as their own. She paused here for longer, and the 
trembling was worse. The True Seer shivered as if she were cold, and 
Sinclair saw that whatever was affecting her was affecting Ebrebel as 
well. The Sadaelathi closed his eyes for a long moment when she did, 
opened them when she did, and his head turned with hers. Calesine 
reached out a tentative hand as if to touch the wall, and both Imindor 
and Sinclair braced themselves for the explosion of images that would 
result, but the True Seer only raised her hand as if testing the air. 
Finally she said, 'Left.'

Ebrebel was moving almost immediately, and Sinclair began to worry. 
Calesine seemed to be having a strong effect on him. The tunnel that the 
True Seer had chosen was the narrowest yet, and the lighting was dim, 
the fittings spaced widely apart. Despite their best efforts, their feet 
clanked and rattled hollowly on the deck which had become squares of 
metal grille instead of steel plate. Ahead of them, the corridor 
narrowed still further into a dogleg, first angling right then left. The 
walls were slick with condensation, and with oil and lubricants which 
left heavy residues of sludge in the angle of deck and wall. Sinclair 
wiped stinging sweat away from his eyes and felt a sudden wash of 
dE9jE0-vu. Frowning at the feeling, Sinclair paused in stepping over 
the bulkhead at the red hatch with its peeling yellow maintenance 
sticker, a splash of lurid green graffiti catching his eye. Far off down 
the corridor was the rectangle of light from the service elevator. 
Suddenly he stopped, looking around. Imindor looked questioningly at 
him. He stared at her incredulously. She did not see it. How could she 
not?

'Imindor,' he said quietly. 'Look where we are.'

She looked about herself. He watched her, gauging her reactions. There, 
just in front of her, was the hatch they had passed through. There was 
the... He watched the double take. It was almost comic. Almost. Imindor 
rounded on him, a wildness in her eyes that Sinclair had never seen. 
Somehow, they had been turned around and sent back along their own path.

'I felt something back there,' said Sinclair quietly. ' I cannot 
describe it.' Imindor nodded as well. She looked at the rest of the 
Sadaelathi, and snapped something in their dialect. Sinclair watched 
them coming awake, realising where they were. One of them shook his head 
in disbelief.

'I too felt something,' she said to Sinclair. 'It was not unlike the 
feeling of qu'on jhabar. The feeling that one has passed a certain way 
often in a previous life, but never in this one.' For the first time in 
the months that he had known her, Imindor looked uncertain and 
tentative. They both looked at the True Seer. Of all the Sadaelathi, 
Ebrebel seemed the only one who was not surprised that somehow they had 
turned back on their own tracks. Or they had been turned back. Sinclair 
did not like to dwell on that thought. The True Seer sat small and 
huddled in Ebrebel's arms, her eyes still clouded with the glaze that 
resulted from Seeing. She looked at the two of them when they spoke her 
name, but Sinclair felt that it was only with much effort, as if she had 
had to pull her mind back from wherever her Seeing sent it.

'Calesine,' said Sinclair softly. 'We have been turned back on 
ourselves. Somehow we have been returned here without us knowing it. You 
felt nothing? You sensed nothing?'

For a long moment, Calesine said nothing. Then she shook her head. Her 
voice when she answered seemed to come from some unimaginable distance. 
'I felt nothing,' she whispered. 'I....sensed nothing, nothing beyond 
what I always feel. There was...no one else...there.' She fell silent. 
Ebrebel suddenly twitched, his face spasming. It lasted a second, then 
it was gone. Sinclair exchanged a look with Imindor.

'I suggest that we try it again,' he said. She nodded, turning to issue 
orders to the Sadaelathi. Sinclair spoke to the True Seer, eyeing 
Ebrebel as he did so.

'Calesine, we need to have someone else carry you for a while.' She did 
not respond, and he tried again. He felt Imindor come up to him, and he 
turned and looked at her. Her face was its usual composed mask, and she 
shook her head at him.

'I fear that she is too far gone to respond to you about things like 
this. Her whole being is focused on finding whatever it is might be in 
there,' motioning her head towards the Triangle. 'At least now we know 
that there is something in there.'

The party turned on their heels, and retraced their steps into the 
Triangle. Sinclair kept a close eye on Calesine and Ebrebel. The True 
Seer's face retained its composure and wide-eyed stare, her eyes glassy 
with the effects of her Seeing. Ebrebel's eyes were simply dull, and 
that frightened Sinclair the most. He had never seen a Sadaelathi look 
anything less than razor edge. He noticed Imindor cast more than one 
glance at her warrior. As they approached the dogleg, Sinclair braced 
himself for what he felt the last time, ready to counter it, watching 
the True Seer at the same time. The walls were slick with condensation, 
and with oil and lubricants which left heavy residues of sludge in the 
angle of deck and wall. Sinclair wiped stinging sweat away from his eyes 
and felt a sudden wash of dE9jE0-vu. Frowning at the feeling, Sinclair 
paused in stepping over the bulkhead at the red hatch with its peeling 
yellow maintenance sticker, a splash of lurid green graffiti catching 
his eye. Far off down the corridor was the rectangle of light from the 
service elevator. Suddenly he stopped, looking around. Imindor looked 
questioningly at him. He stared at her incredulously. She did not see 
it. How could she not?

'What?!!' they said to each other at the same time. They looked around 
at the rest of the party. The same reactions from the Sadaelathi, 
bemusement, apprehension and surprise. A glance at Calesine, and 
Sinclair stepped forward in consternation. Her head lolled on Ebrebel's 
shoulder, and his eyes were wide and staring. Enough, thought Sinclair. 
This is ludicrous. What are we doing here, what is happening? He looked 
worriedly at Imindor. He felt for that part of himself that would let 
him use people in this war, but it was no longer there. It was gone, 
fled in the face of this torture of a gentle being, the wasting away of 
one who had sworn to serve him, and this force that turned them around 
against their will, without them even knowing. He shared a wordless 
glance with the captain of his guard. Imindor said nothing, waiting for 
his command, and he felt the awesome weight of responsibility settle 
further on his shoulders. Responsibility for this Minbari and this 
warrior. It was his quest, and they were so near the end that he could 
almost feel it. He hardened his resolve, and gave his command, imagining 
a cloak that lay heavily on his shoulders.

'We try again,' he said quietly, folding the cloak of stone closely 
about himself.

Back they went, into the Triangle. Right at the first crossing. Then 
left. Approaching the dogleg, Sinclair's heart hammering at his chest. 
The walls were slick with condensation, and with oil and lubricants 
which left heavy residues of sludge in the angle of deck and wall. 
Sinclair wiped stinging sweat away from his eyes and felt a sudden wash 
of dE9jE0-vu...

'Enough,' came a strained voice.

Sinclair jerked, his mind awhirl and lost for a moment. He looked at his 
hand, reaching out in front of him as if to grasp the wheel lock of a 
hatch. He flexed his fist, and withdrew his hand, and turned to 
Calesine. It was she who had spoken. The True Seer's eyes were clear, 
and they seemed to hold a kind of terrible acceptance, looking down the 
corridor into the sombre lighting. The corridor they saw, now that they 
had made it around the left corner of the dogleg, ended perhaps ten 
metres away in a dead-end of dull and scarred metal, rivets making a 
rusted constellation across the dirty gray steel. Calesine said nothing 
more, only turned her gaze from the corridor to Sinclair. He stiffened 
as a terrible sense of foreboding swept over him, and a voice echoed 
suddenly in his mind.

This is the way it must be, Sa'Shy Alyt. Do not weep for me. Do not weep 
for any of us, for we have not chosen to follow you blindly. Hold fast 
to your resolve, but hold faster to your pain as well. Watch for the day 
that the pain of responsibility no longer affects you, for you will be 
lost to yourself, and to us. There was silence in his mind and then a 
last thought, tinged with humour of all things, in this place, from that 
person. The cloak can never be put down, Sa'Shy Alyt, but it can be 
passed on for a time. To those who will stand with you in the times to 
come. A face floated suddenly before him: a wide, sensuous mouth; eyes 
that glittered with humour one moment, and were flat and deadly the 
next; a smooth dome of forehead under a ritually carved bonecrest; a way 
of moving that was more glide than walk; a hand that would touch gently 
to emphasise, belying the iron strength that lay within it; a way of 
tilting her head quizzically at a human expression that she did not 
understand; the deep silences that characterised her. The images went 
on. A myriad images in the blink of an eye, and the firing of a synapse.

Sinclair blinked, the voice in his mind gone. Things began to happen 
very quickly then, and time seemed to slow to a crawl.

Ebrebel, his eyes still dim and blank, moving in slow motion, lowered 
Calesine to the deck. Imindor turned, seeming to move against a 
hurricane, her face flat with what Sinclair had come to recognise as 
blackest fury or deepest concern, lunging towards the True Seer. Her 
orders to the warriors behind Ebrebel came out stretched in a parody of 
a voice. Sinclair remained rooted to the spot, and suddenly events and 
time began whirling past him faster and faster like rapids around a 
rock. Calesine's feet touched the deck. Her eyes widened. Her head 
snapped back. A scream, a scream such as might herald the end of the 
world, was ripped from her mouth. And Sinclair's head exploded with 
images again, like at the hatch, tinged and coloured with Calesine's 
terror. Only much worse. Much, much worse.

Pain exploded in his head along with the images. Sinclair felt himself 
falling and sliding against the wall. He heard someone screaming 
counterpoint to the True Seer, and realised dimly that it was him. Other 
bodies were falling with him, others slumping to their knees with their 
arms wrapped around their head. The images battered him, washing over 
and submerging his consciousness.

Darkness. Fire. The corridor awash in blood. Fire. Tendrils of deepest 
black that crept across the walls, taking form and shape as scimitar 
limbed creatures of nightmare. Darkness. A door, through which all the 
evil in the world flows like water. Fire. A single ship that fled the 
spreading explosions that consumed the station. Fire. A hand reaching 
across the stars, and a darkness spreading, spreading, spreading to dim 
them. Darkness. Fire. A hand reaching across the stars. Darkness. Fire. 
A crossing point of many ways, all in shadow. Fire. A door through which 
all the evil in the world flows like water. Darkness. A door through 
which all the evil in the world flows like water. Darkness. A door 
through which all the evil in the world...A door through which all the 
evil...A door through which...A door...

Through the red haze of the True Seer's communicated pain, through the 
hammering repetition and strident urgency of the images, Sinclair saw 
it. Curled against the angle of wall and deck, he saw it, and knew it 
was no image, no symbol sent by Calesine in her delirium and interpreted 
by his mind. He saw it. He saw it. Standing there at the end of the 
corridor. Matte black. Midnight black. So black that paradoxically it 
almost seemed to shine, even as it ate what little light there was. A 
rectangle, a pillar. A monolithic shape, tall and black, so very black, 
topped by a single twisted rune of dull red Shadow script. It seemed to 
repel at him even as he looked at it, as Calesine Saw it for them, 
ripping away the veils of illusion with which the monolith cloaked 
itself. It made him want to turn his eyes away, to crawl away into the 
deepest, darkest hole that he could find and forget that he had ever 
seen it. But Calesine stopped him, and he was caught between two forces, 
helpless, like a fly in a spider's web. Between the monolith that 
repelled at him. And Calesine who forced him to See. To See it for what 
it was.

It was a door. Sinclair knew that. A portal into darkness, and through 
which darkness flowed, evil like water. A door which was closed now, but 
which might open at any time, to disgorge only God knew what horrors, 
and Sinclair found himself praying very hard to the God that he only 
rarely acknowledged.

A door through which all the evil in the world flows like water. A door 
through which all the evil in the world...

His mind went suddenly quiet. The door vanished from his sight. From a 
blood-red distance, Sinclair fought to the surface of consciousness, 
knowing that only a second or two had elapsed since the assault on his 
mind had begun. Through tear blurred eyes and with a head that rang like 
a struck bell, each vibration sending waves of pain rebounding through 
his skull, Sinclair looked around himself. He lay stretched along the 
wall, his hands curled painfully through the squares of the grille that 
made up the deck. Imindor lay opposite him, her knees drawn up against 
her chest. All the Sadaelathi lay on the deck. Moans filled the air. A 
line of smoking, black rimmed holes in the wall showed where one of the 
Sadaelathi had fired. None of that mattered to him. He had eyes for only 
one thing.

Ebrebel lay spread-eagled on his back. A trickle of red ran from the 
corner of his mouth, and his eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling. 
Calesine lay across his chest, her eyes closed and her face in repose, 
poor witness to the terror that had slammed into Sinclair's mind from 
her seconds ago. Her arms were draped across Ebrebel, one hand 
delicately cupping the shadowed angle where his jaw and neck met. Like 
lovers, sleeping on a sunlit meadow. Blood trickled from her mouth as 
well, shockingly bright where it pooled on the Sadaelathi's matte black 
impact armour. Sinclair rolled over, unclamping his fingers from the 
grille, and began to crawl across to her, a broken sob escaping him. 
Reaching her, he ran a hand over her face. Calm now. It would always be 
calm.

'Oh, Calesine,' he whispered. A poor epitaph, but he had strength for 
nothing more.

There was a scrape of armour against the deck, and Imindor's face 
appeared in the corner of his vision, and her hand closed over his, 
tightened. He turned towards her. Her eyes were dark with pain. He knew 
that whatever he must have felt, the Sadaelathi, being empaths, would 
have felt it tenfold. She knew, he was sure, but he said it anyway.

'She is dead.' Imindor nodded. Her voice, when she replied, was very 
small.

'I know. We...we felt her passing.'

Sinclair felt tears come to his eyes again. He remembered Calesine's 
blessing, absolving him of responsibility for her death, but it was 
never that easy. He knew that he would always feel pain at the memory of 
her passing. He turned to say something to Imindor, and looked instead 
down the barrels of her sleeve gun. His breath caught in his throat as 
the targeting laser flashed ruby red in his eye, before it passed out of 
his vision. Her face was flat with anticipation, but it was not on him 
that those iron hard eyes were focused on. It was something behind him 
that she was aiming at. He made to turn, but before he could do so, a 
shadow fell across him, stretching across the wall in front of him. He 
craned his head over his left shoulder to look behind him and his breath 
caught in his throat again.

A sweeping, wedge shaped head looked down at him, cocked to one side, 
and a single green eye irised open in the front it. A tall, square 
column with flaring shoulders, backlit with a nimbus of light from the 
fittings in the roof. Sinclair knew that it was an environment suit, 
covered with a long, flowing garment, a cape, that fell to the floor 
from the immense shoulders, covering the carapace within.

'Kosh,' murmured Sinclair, amazed to see this being here, now. It did 
not occur to Sinclair to wonder how it was that Kosh could see any of 
them under their camouflage.

The head with its single, green iris, swiveled away from Sinclair and 
looked down the corridor at the dead end. Kosh did nothing that Sinclair 
could see, said nothing, but the air seemed to shimmer, not unlike it 
did around a Sadaelathi activating the camouflage polymers of his 
cloaking device. It made Sinclair aware of something behind him, as if 
unseen eyes raked him with their acid stare, and he turned away from the 
Vorlon, past Imindor, still with her eyes fixed on Kosh, to the scarred 
metal wall at the end of the corridor.

The door stood there, revealed to all and stripped of its illusory 
power. Sinclair rose slowly to his feet, looking at it all the while. It 
seemed strange standing in plain view, less threatening somehow seen 
through his own eyes, rather than through the pain-wracked prism of 
Calesine's Sight and her dire, prophetic vision. Sinclair turned away, 
back towards Kosh, and suddenly felt those unseen eyes on his back 
again. Goosebumps covered his flesh, and he whirled back around to face 
the door, expecting the worst of Calesine's visions. There was nothing 
there, but he had not imagined it. He had not. After a moment he turned 
back to Kosh's, and again a thousand eyes stared menace from the 
shadows. It was with an effort that he ignored the crawling sensation on 
his back, and faced the Vorlon. Without taking his eyes from Kosh, he 
spoke to Imindor in a voice that he hoped was calm and steady, which was 
far from how he felt.

'Put up your weapon. There is no need for it.'

Imindor nodded, turning the gun from the Vorlon. She whispered an order 
into her collar mike. Three Sadaelathi drew up to Sinclair and began 
watching the door with their usual flat lidded gaze, for all the world 
looking like a trio of cats eyeing a mousehole. Sinclair took two steps 
towards the Vorlon, the light shining on the smooth top of the narrow, 
wedge shaped head as it swiveled to look at him. The green eye irised 
shut, then opened slightly, the head tilting first one way then the 
other. Sinclair stood in front of him, enduring Kosh's silent scrutiny 
and the crawl and slither of eyes across his back

'Kosh,' he said again. 'What are you doing? How did you know we were 
down here? And what,' he said, gesturing at the door behind him, 'is 
that?'

Kosh said nothing for a moment, regarding the human silently, the green 
iris dilating and closing. Then the head turned towards the door. The 
air shimmered again, and the door vanished from sight, its own cloak 
restored. Kosh's head turned back to Sinclair. A cluster of lights on 
the front of the carapace suddenly lit in a revolving, circular pattern, 
and a voice cascaded gently from the swirling, luminescent device.

- Come away from here. This place is not safe. It is not for you - The 
voice faded away like the final cords of a piece of music. Machinery 
throbbed somewhere far away, a discordant sequel to the hypnotic 
inflection of Kosh's voice. The tall shape swiveled, turning away from 
them and gliding away down the corridor, making no sound on the hollow 
deck. The Sadaelathi watched him go, eyes tracking him as he ghosted 
past them.

'Wait!' said Sinclair. 'Kosh, wait!' He started after the Vorlon, 
breaking into a run. He drew abreast of Kosh, but the Vorlon sailed on, 
paying him no attention. 'You cannot leave like this, Kosh. Wait, 
dammit!' He reached out a hand to stop him and it brushed over the 
shimmering cape that covered the carapace. His hand tingled and went 
dead and numb, and Sinclair gasped, holding it to his chest. Kosh 
stopped though and the head pivoted to look down at him. The lights span 
on the carapace.

- There is a time and a place for all things, Sa'Shy Alyt. Here is not 
the place for the answering of questions - he said in his musical 
whisper. He resumed his imperious glide down the corridor, leaving 
Sinclair standing in his wake. Frustration etched itself clearly across 
Sinclair's face, and he shouted after the Vorlon.

'Well when then? When is the time?'

The answer floated from the retreating ambassador. - A summons will come 
- Then he was gone around the corner.

Sinclair turned back to the Sadaelathi and their two dead, and a sneer 
crawled across his face as he looked around the corridor. A sneer at 
himself. At the way things had turned out. Mentally, as if to hurt 
himself, he tallied up their casualty list. Over two missions he had 
cost them three dead on Chamarra, another who had died later of his 
wounds, and now Ebrebel and Calesine. And this mission was not even 
over. He locked eyes with Imindor, and nodded, to himself and to her. 
She spoke softly into her collar mike and the Sadaelathi rose to their 
feet, those that were still kneeling, and prepared themselves to make 
the return journey. A Sadaelathi named Farindier gently moved to pick up 
the True Seer but Sinclair knelt beside him and touched him on the 
shoulder. The warrior turned startlingly blue eyes on him, and Sinclair 
smiled gently and motioned him away.

'This burden is mine,' he said softly. Farindier looked at him for a 
moment, then leant away, allowing Sinclair to lift Calesine off the 
floor. She was very light, the impact armour hugging her slim form. 
Almost it seemed as if she really were sleeping and for one heart 
stopping moment, Sinclair actually believed that she was, indeed, just 
resting. But then her head fell back, lolling obscenely as he rose to 
his feet. Imindor stepped forward and gently lifted it and placed it on 
Sinclair's shoulder, as if Calesine were resting it there. Lovers on a 
sunlit meadow, he thought.

'Come,' he said, turning with the doll-like Minbari in his arms and 
starting down the corridor, away from this place of death and nightmare. 
'Let's get away from here.' He began walking, not caring if anyone 
followed him, taking the Sadaelathi for granted for the first time since 
they had come under his command. There was a strange kind of comfort in 
it though, this placing of trust in them, and a lessening of the weight 
of responsibility that he seemed to feel more and more often. Sure 
enough, a slender, black form flitted ahead of him, and another paced 
him at his right arm. Onarion ahead of him.

Imindor to the right.

End of Part Seven

From: "Luke McCallin" <woggo@bih.net.ba>
Subject: A Cloak of Stone Part 8
Date: Tue, 26 Oct 1999 22:26:49 +00

Dear All,

Sorry for the delay in sending Part Eight out, but I've been away the 
past few days. In any case, here it is and I hope that you enjoy reading 
it. In this part I really indulged myself - mythology, science fiction, 
fantasy, the works! I also made a wild stab at what I thought the 
conflict between the Vorlons and the Shadows was really about, or rather 
what form it would eventually take. I was half right, as it turned out.

Anyway, that's neither here nor there. On with the story...!

Cheers and enjoy. Comments welcome as always.
3D3D3D

Disclaimer: Babylon 5 and its associated characters are the property of 
J. Michael Straczynski, Warner Bros, and TNT. All else is (c) and 
belongs to Luke McCallin

A Cloak of Stone
Part Eight

The summons came twelve hours later, a summons from Kosh to meet in 
Ambassador Delenn's quarters. So it was that Sheridan, Ivanova, 
Garibaldi, Imindor and a furious Sinclair gathered to hear the Vorlon. 
Sinclair had briefed the others, in succinct and cold details, of what 
had happened down in the Triangle. All of them kept close to themselves 
the terrifying implications of that thing, that door, and of the danger 
that it could spell for the future, not to mention the jeopardy that it 
could have caused the past. Sinclair sat still and silent, a brooding 
and aloof figure in his blue robes, and Garibaldi had never felt so 
distant from his old friend. Imindor sat beside him, every now and then 
glancing at Sinclair. Garibaldi felt a surge of resentment at her, and 
jealousy as well, thinking to himself, That used to my place, that is 
where I used to be. He shook himself mentally. No time for that, 
Michael, no time and no place for it either. It was then that the 
doorbell chimed and he rose out of his reverie, seeing the others do the 
same. It was Lennier who opened the door for the Vorlon, who flowed in 
majestically, curving round the furniture like a galleon under sail to 
stand in the middle of the room. Sinclair stood up, a furious expression 
on his face.

'I want answers, Kosh. And I want them now. I want to know why two of my 
people died yesterday when you could have done something about it.'

Garibaldi winced at the tone of the Ambassador's voice, as did Delenn 
and Imindor. The Sadaelath rose half out of her seat, reaching out a 
placating hand to Sinclair, who waved her away, all his attention on the 
Vorlon. 'You knew that...that door was down there. You knew, and yet you 
said nothing. Let us walk into it unprepared.'

- Yes - chimed the Vorlon. Then: - No. I could not know for certain that 
it was there -

'How could you not know, Kosh? You float around inside that Goddamn 
suit, uttering incomprehensible messages, appearing to know it all, and 
the first Minbari telepath that comes aboard finds this thing, spewing 
evil, you turn up right behind us, and then you say you did not know?'

- It was shielded from me - said the Vorlon. Garibaldi frowned at his 
tone. Was that his imagination, or did Kosh sound defensive? - I could 
not search for it. They would suspect too much -

'Ach,' said Sinclair, exasperated. 'What bloody use are you?'

- SINCLAIR - Garibaldi jumped in his seat, as did everyone else in the 
room. He had never heard the Vorlon use that tone before, the chimes 
sounding a deep bass rumble of threat. Sinclair backed off a step, but 
maintained his anger at the Vorlon. - All of you - The iris in the front 
of his headpiece opened fully. A green glow emanated from it, and 
suddenly it was all Garibaldi could concentrate on, the centre of his 
world around which everything turned. The Vorlon's voice seemed to echo 
in his head. - Learn. Thus it began, long ago... -

He saw...
A planet, banded in rusty reds and browns, the tops of clouds that 
seethed and boiled, a ceaseless, age-old churning. He seemed to float 
above it, looking down. Then his viewpoint tilted, and he dived down, 
down into the clouds that rushed up at him like the surface of 
wavelashed sea. Into a turmoil of wind and rain, titanic storms and 
thunder to shake the bones of any world. Further down, always down 
through hurricane winds and blinding rain, to the surface. Here, where 
the sun shone fitfully through the blanket of clouds, the world was 
flat, covered in stumpy, stunted growth, all that survived in the face 
of the scouring wind. Flat earth spread in all directions, shallow salty 
lakes and seas, no hills, no mountains and valleys. All flattened by the 
wind and the rain. An unlikely place for life to arise.

- Watch - came the Vorlon's voice.

He saw...
That the planet's orbit around its star was twinned with that of another 
planet. Together with the planet's moon, their three combined orbits 
would wreak havoc upon each others surfaces, the massive tidal pulls and 
crushing gravity that resulted from their close proximity were the 
driving forces for the awesome storms that lashed the red banded world 
ceaselessly. But, periodically, the other planet, orbiting nearer the 
sun, would pull ahead of the red banded planet, and the storms, bereft 
of their motivating power, would die away and the sun would shine on the 
tempest ravaged world. Until the other planet returned, and the cycle 
would start all over again. Into these times of respite, life emerged.

Life like nothing the observer called Michael Garibaldi had ever in his 
wildest dreams imagined. Clay. Intelligence that evolved in clay, that 
evolved to use the energy generated by the monstrous storms that ravaged 
the planet eighty  years out of a hundred. Electrostatic energy was 
stored in clay beds with saline solutions on the shores of the many seas 
that dotted one of the continents. Over time that the observer felt as a 
great, echoing gulf, the clays built up complicated lattices that could 
replicate themselves. In the storm times, they harvested piezoelectric 
currents driven by pressures in crystals that formed under the heavy 
gravity. In the quiet times, they used algae to capture sunlight. They 
drew off the energy, like farmers. In the quiet times, they contemplated 
the stars, communed together, dreaded the return of the storms. They 
began to deny the fury brought on by the conjunctions of the three 
planets. A slow anger began to churn through their lattices, sluggish 
desires for something else. As their intelligence grew, so did their 
power, thus the power of their denial grew stronger, their outraged 
denial of what was - the winds and the rains and the crushing gravity. 
They dreamt of what might be. Joined together, yet each still 
individual, their denial began to change the world they inhabited. When 
the storms blasted the land, when the stars were blocked from view and 
the cold set in, they turned themselves inwards, and formed their own 
reality, one where the world was no longer scoured and drenched and 
crushed.

And one day, it was so.
- Thus it begins - intoned the voice of Kosh. - The Repudiators -

He saw...
That the winds were gone, although the three worlds still orbited 
together. They put forth their power, and the rains ceased to drench the 
face of the world. Together, they denied the gravity that hammered them 
down, and it was gone. An intelligence formed in denial, that refused to 
accept what was. But like a vicious circle, their achievement turned in 
on itself. They only wanted things to deny. To an observer watching the 
planet over the centuries that followed, he would have seen the surface 
ripple and flicker with form and colour and shape, seen things born into 
the world and vanish moments later as the creatures warped reality, 
denying it, denying anything that came to their attention. Repudiating 
it. Repudiators. They had no concept of reality, at least not the 
concept that the observer had, and anything beyond the sphere of their 
perception was not real, and existed only to be denied, and in the 
denying, to be changed. So it continued, the Repudiators trapped in a 
web of their own denial. Creatures that denied reality, to the point of 
manipulating it to their own ends.

- See the Enemy. The ancient Darkness - whispered the Vorlon, and the 
observer shivered in terror as darkness moved across the vision.

He saw...
The Shadows. Fleeing defeat long, long ago in an ancient war in the 
never ending struggle between themselves and the First Ones, the Shadows 
came to the world where the Repudiators warped and exploited reality. 
Old and wise even then, the Shadows saw in them a tool to be used. They 
hid on the world they had found, hiding from the avenging fleets of the 
First Ones, letting the wind of defeat pass over them, biding their time 
to rebuild their numbers, and to learn to exploit the creatures that 
they had found. Using them. Learning what they were. Slowly corrupting 
and changing and adapting them to their own use, imprisoning them in 
mini-universes where they could endlessly change and deny, and give them 
an outlet into the real world only when the Shadows needed something.

Terrible engines of destruction were thus created, ships like spiders 
and weapons of awesome power, ways to bypass space, even time. And when 
the time was right, they came against the free worlds again in secret, 
using the things that the Repudiators had created for them. The Shadows 
began a thousand year reign of terror, a thousand years of great 
suffering, when the threat of extinction fell over the Galaxy's many 
races and the Shadows were everywhere victorious.

- And so the cycle of blood and fire begins anew - the Vorlon whispered.

He saw...
The War of Repudiation. A galaxy ablaze, destruction beyond anything he 
could comprehend. He saw battle joined between the First Ones and the 
Shadows. He saw stars dwindle and die. He saw stars collide, stars 
explode into nova in agonising fury, shockwaves sweeping away cultures 
and civilisations. He saw vast fleets of ships do battle, energies and 
engines harnessed for destruction that he could not conceive of. He saw 
entire systems sterilised of life. He saw black holes dropped into 
planets, watched them sucked into their insatiable maws. He saw nanonic 
plagues unleashed upon the Galaxy. He saw great, semi-sentient molecular 
clouds of poisons that trawled the empty spaces between stars, hunting 
out life, falling upon it with demonic abandon whenever they found it. 
He watched a litany of betrayals and defeats, battles won gloriously and 
battles lost ignominiously. His mind quailed away..

In a last desperate gambit, the tattered remnants of the First Ones 
sought out the source of the Shadows unnatural strength. Sought it and 
found it. A titanic battle was fought, the vision blazed and rippled 
with energies and ferocity and desperation unimaginable. The observer's 
mind cowered from it, was stunned by it. In the end, the First Ones were 
victorious. The planet's star was induced to nova, the sphere of 
destruction too much even for the Repudiators' powers of denial, and the 
planet was burnt to a husk, and the husk smashed to pieces, and with it 
the dreams and power of the Shadows. Once again, the First Ones scoured 
them from the stars. But something survived, hidden away. A weapon, a 
tool, that the First Ones did not suspect until the last days of that 
terrible war, when it was almost too late. The Shadows had created a 
Nexus, portals onto any world that they wished, whenever they wished. A 
crossing point in time and space. The First Ones learnt late of its 
existence, thought that they had destroyed the Nexus when they destroyed 
the world of the Repudiators. But they were wrong. The Shadows created 
two of the gateways, and only one was destroyed with the world. Over the 
ensuing millennia, the Shadows kept it and the last surviving Repudiator 
and guarded them as their greatest secret, using it hardly at all, 
harbouring it for the time when the First Ones might have passed on or 
forgotten of its existence, and it could once again be used without 
raising suspicion.

- Observe the Nexus - murmured the musical voice of the Vorlon to the 
observer.

He saw...
A dais in a darkened, circular chamber, a chamber sunk in shadow, walls 
of slick, black rock beneath a roof hung with dark machinery. Dim 
figures moved in the gloom, tending the machines. Upon the dais was a 
sunken pit for what seemed to be sand. Then he saw lights flicker within 
it, restless coruscating waves of blue and white, ceaselessly glowing, 
and he knew it to be a Repudiator, the only surviving one. In the wall 
that circled the dais were eight arched openings, each opening framed 
with words and symbols of power in spidery Shadow script. Each opening 
led down a corridor, the walls covered in the slick, black rock, sunk in 
thick shadow. The observer quailed away from the openings, but the 
vision moved forward, out of the Repudiator's chamber and down one of 
the passages. At the end of, there was something that seemed to eat what 
little light that there was. Something so black that it seemed to shine. 
Tall. Monolithic. It lit to sudden life, framing an image - of a room, 
an office, a broad window in a wall looked out onto sweeping lawns and 
tall white buildings. There was a desk in the room, a great wooden desk 
behind a blue and gold seal embossed upon the floor. A man sat behind 
the desk, a small man in a black suit with a round, balding head. And 
the observer that was Michael Garibaldi suddenly shook with fear, 
because he knew that room and he knew that man, he knew them, even as 
the surface of the image rippled like water, and something stepped from 
it, flowing into the passage. A figure of nightmare, a crest of 
chitinous spikes, scimitar limbed. Eyes glowed ember red in the 
darkness, a slither of piping speech never meant for human ears, and the 
thing was coming towards him, oh God it was coming towards him...

...as the vision ended with a lurch, and Michael Garibaldi slumped in 
his chair, feeling his heart hammering with the fear he had felt at the 
sight of that thing. He was covered in sweat. He was soaked in it, and 
he was trembling. Mercifully, the horror was starting to fade, but he 
remembered enough. He looked up at the others, and they were all in 
similar states. Sheridan was breathing heavily, his head in his hands. 
Sinclair was staring into space, and there was something in his stare 
that made Garibaldi shiver. Ivanova had her eyes tightly shut, her head 
shaking slightly. Delenn had her eyes shut as well, her hands clasped to 
her breasts and her mouth moving silently in prayer. And Imindor was on 
her feet, in a fighting stance, and she too was gazing at something far 
away. Then she realised where she was, and with a start she relaxed her 
stance, and sat down, though her eyes maintained that thousand yard 
stare. The only one that did not seem touched was the Vorlon. Standing 
in the middle of them, head cocked to one side. It was Sheridan who 
broke the silence.

'That...that thing,' he began, his voice cracking. 'That thing. It's 
real, it exists somewhere?'

The lights span on the Vorlon's carapace. - As real as you and I - he 
sang.

'My God,' murmured Ivanova, brokenly. She looked up at the others, at 
Garibaldi and Sheridan.  'I saw Earth, through that doorway. I saw 
Earth. I saw the office of the President.'

Garibaldi nodded. 'I saw it as well. Clark behind his desk.'

Sinclair leant forward. 'I didn't see Clark. I saw a pressure dome on 
Mars. I saw a room with the Psi Corps insignia on the wall,' he 
whispered, eyes haunted.

Sheridan raised his head from his hands, stared at Ivanova and Garibaldi 
with empty eyes. 'I saw it as well. Earth. The President's office.'

'I saw the meeting hall of the Grey Council,' said Delenn, quietly. Then 
she shuddered, buried her face in her hands. My God, Garibaldi thought 
to himself, horrified. Does that mean that the Grey Council has been 
corrupted?

Imindor did not say what she saw.

'To think...' began Ivanova. 'To think that those things have been 
moving around like that. For how long?'

'Too long,' said Sheridan, grimly. 'That's how Morden has been moving 
around so quickly. On and off the station. And it probably means that 
there are Shadows here. Right now.'

Garibaldi's stomach did a flip at that, and his heart began to pump ice 
around his veins. Narns, Centauri, Minbari, Nakaleen feeders I can 
handle, he thought to himself. But not those things. Please please 
please don't let any of them be on my station. As if in answer to his 
fervent prayer, Kosh intoned;

- There are none here. Presently -

'What do you mean, 'presently'? Do you mean that they have been here?' 
demanded Sheridan furiously. Kosh said nothing, only cocked his head in 
that infuriating manner of his, the iris zipping open and shut. 'Well, 
answer me, dammit, and none of that cryptic crap you spout!' insisted 
Sheridan. Delenn murmured something, looking at Sheridan with pleading 
eyes. 'Have you known about them and said nothing to us? Do you have no 
regard for the danger that you might have put us in? Aren't you worried 
about jeopardising your little alliance? Remember, I know what's inside 
that fancy suit of yours. I...'

- Enough! - hissed Kosh. - You forget yourself. Had I approached the 
portal thus, it would have sensed me. The Shadows would have known that 
we knew of the Nexus. They would have moved then to use it. Think on 
that, human - intoned Kosh. - Think on a hundred portals opened onto 
your Earth. Think on the Army of Night pouring through them - Garibaldi 
was amazed. That was easily the longest single speech that he had ever 
heard the Vorlon say. - To strike at it directly would be to go against 
the Balance. Besides, you were never in any danger. And I have always 
been here - That seemed to have some kind of effect on Sheridan. He 
staggered back as if struck, his eyes framing a question, then he sat 
down, silent.

Sinclair spoke up then. 'This balance you mentioned. What is that?'

Garibaldi thought that the Vorlon would refuse to answer at first, then 
the lights chimed on his carapace. - The Balance - he intoned, 
emphasising the capital letter. - An ancient compact, between the 
Shadows and the First Ones. Each will act through agents and proxies, 
before they do battle together -

Delenn looked stunned at this. Sinclair rose from his seat, his face a 
black thundercloud. 'Agents?' he hissed. 'Proxies?! You mean that you 
and the Shadows carry out your war indirectly? That you let others do 
the fighting for you, avoiding contact with each other? Until you decide 
that the time is right?'

- Should battle be joined now, between the remaining First Ones and the 
Shadows, your kind would be as dust upon the wind in the teeth of such 
savagery - And the green light sought them out again, ensnared them, and 
Garibaldi saw...

.... a Galaxy devastated, almost all life stunted and ruined. He saw a 
meeting, a parley, between the protagonists. He saw an agreement 
reached. That to avoid such utter destruction, each side would act 
through others, lesser beings, avoiding direct confrontation until the 
very end. Each would act like players over a chessboard, remote and 
aloof, yet all important, all powerful, guiding, directing, 
manipulating...

...and the vision ended.

- The Shadows are much diminished from what they were. Yet still, what 
they are is far beyond anything that you might oppose directly. And the 
Balance binds them, as well. What they want, what they desire, will be 
useless to them if the Galaxy burns -

'And what...' Sheridan was unable to continue, after what he had just 
seen. 'and just what is it that they want?'

Kosh was silent. Then: - A question for another time, another place -

Garibaldi shook his head. He could not believe how lucid Kosh was being. 
For once, he was answering questions straight up without referring to 
willow trees, arcane symbology or the three blind mice. 'So now we know 
what's down there. What are we going to do about it?'

'It must be destroyed,' said Imindor, flatly. All eyes turned to Kosh, 
who said nothing.

'Right,' said Garibaldi. 'How do you propose to do that?'

'I have no idea,' she replied. Then she rose and went over to stand next 
to Sinclair and looked at Kosh. 'But he does. He will tell us.' Threw it 
out like a challenge to the Vorlon. Sinclair turned and smiled at her, 
then turned back to Kosh. Everyone in the room was silent. Expectant. 
Waiting. Finally the lights on the carapace whirled into motion.

- There is a way - sang the Vorlon. - Attend. Observe closely... -

End of Part Eight


From: "Luke McCallin" <woggo@bih.net.ba>
Subject: A Cloak of Stone Part Nine
Date: Thu, 28 Oct 1999 09:14:21 +00

Dear All

Here is the ninth and final part of A Cloak of Stone. Its been a 
wonderful experience sending it to you, and I've enjoyed the comments 
I've gotten from some of you immensely. Thank you for reading it, thank 
you for enjoying it as well.

After this one, there will be another B5 story, although not with the 
same characters. But I might return to Imindor and her Heartguard soon. 
After re-reading it and sending it out, I find that I miss them, and had 
forgotten how much I enjoyed creating them those three years ago!

Anyway, on with the story.

Cheers, and enjoy. Comments welcome as always

Luke
3D3D3D

Disclaimer: Babylon 5 and its associated characters are the property of 
J. Michael Straczynski, Warner Bros, and TNT. All else is (c) and 
belongs to Luke McCallin

A Cloak of Stone

Part Nine

Lying in bed later that night, Sinclair stared unseeing at the ceiling 
of his room, turning the day's events over and over in his mind. And he 
knew, he supposed that he had always known, that in the end it would 
come down to him. Him and the Sadaelathi. Or more properly, just the 
Sadaelathi. When hearing of the plan put forward by Kosh, he had wanted 
to refuse. But that part of him that wanted to had been shunted aside, 
replaced by another part. The part that was stone now. The part that 
would do what had to be done. Not the part that would have looked for 
the path of least resistance, for another way. That part would have 
looked for a rabbit to pull out of the hat, an eleventh hour solution 
that would have cost no one their life. But even he had to admit that 
the situation in which they found themselves would not be a solved by a 
fancy turn of phrase or an original interpretation of the regs.

There was no other way of solving this than risking and losing lives.

In a way, he was comfortable with that. Sinclair had begun his adult 
life as a professional soldier. He had had his life risked for him, 
without his being asked, and he had risked the lives of others. But this 
time was different, and he just could not put his finger on what. Maybe 
because this was the first time that he had ever had a personal 
bodyguard. And not just any guard. People sworn to him, with oaths 
graven into their bones. No, he thought to himself. Not to me. To a 
title. It didn't have to be me. The risks involved and what was at stake 
were greater than he had ever known. No, he thought to himself as he 
rolled over in bed, shifting to try and find a comfortable position. 
That's not true either. The risks and stakes had been as high or higher 
for him personally at the Line.

He thought back over the briefing that he and Imindor had given the 
assembled Sadaelathi, after Kosh had told them what had to be done. At 
the end, Sinclair had taken a deep breath and asked for three 
volunteers. They had all looked at him with that tilted expression. One 
had even stepped forward and asked what he meant. Imindor had taken him 
aside and explained quickly and tersely that it was not their way. The 
Sadaelathi would decide amongst themselves who would be selected for the 
mission.

'How?' he had asked, simply.

She had looked at him strangely. He still could not figure out what she 
had thought. Then said: 'Trial by combat.'

Sinclair's eyes had creased in incredulity. 'What? Trial by combat?! 
Just what the hell is that supposed to mean? That they will fight each 
other for the honour to go out and die? I mean, do they know what is 
being asked of them here?'

There had been a flash of steel and fire in her eyes at that. 'They 
know, Sa'Shy Alyt. Do not ever think that they do not know what is at 
stake.' Then softer. 'It is our way, Jeffrey. You will come to 
understand it better. In time.'

And so it was that, a short time after Imindor spoke to him, three 
Sadaelathi presented themselves before their commander and the Sa'Shy 
Alyt. Two wore huge bruises around their eyes, like badges of honour. 
The third bled profusely from a gash acoss the dome of her head. All of 
them carried themselves with an air of unconscious pride. Imindor had 
nodded in absent satisfaction, as though this were normal, and Sinclair 
had stepped forward.

'What are your names?'

'Sedaleyine, Dramalann and Farindier,' whispered Sinclair to himself, 
into his pillow. They were already there, those three names, in the 
corner of his mind set out for the dead next to those of Calesine, 
Ebrebel, Samranna, Esiderine, Gelraenn and Hasbador, the Sadaelathi who 
had died of his wounds after Chamarra. He rolled over again, threw an 
arm across his eyes. Although he had commanded men and women who knew, 
in an abstract sense, that one day they might be called upon to risk 
their lives and perhaps lose them, he had never met anyone who seemed 
eager to do so. But these Sadaelathi were different. They seemed ready, 
eager to dance with death, even embrace it. And God help me, I will use 
that. I will use that and them, spend them like cheap coin if I have to. 
He thought again of what Delenn had said people had called them, long 
ago. The Black Guard. That people would rather have faced the Shadows 
than fight alongside the Black Guard. Tomorrow those three would die. 
There was no way round that. But just because they were willing, just 
because they had no fear of death, did that mean that he had the right 
to just accept that and do nothing? Make no effort to change them? Set 
them on a different path than the one that had kept them bound and 
chained for a thousand years? Ahh, but then, if they had not set 
themselves on that path, they would not be here now, where they are 
needed.

'Damn,' he breathed. The Sadaelathi saw their struggle as twofold - as 
one of physical battle against the enemy, and one against themselves, as 
they struggled to keep faith with an oath made a thousand years ago. And 
in their own way they were right. But the struggle that they were all 
being drawn into was so much more than that, Sinclair was coming to 
realise. It was as much about the force of ideas as about armed force. 
As much about the definition of who and what you were as about the 
negation of the same thing in others. Only now, slowly and perhaps too 
late, was he coming to realise this, and that the biggest part of his 
job was going to be a forging an army that saw beyond today's battle to 
tomorrow's peace. With the Rangers, with the help that he had from 
people like Kallassier, he felt that was possible. He felt that he had a 
vision, and felt that he could get that vision across. But with the 
Sadaelathi... they had a long view, alright. They thought beyond 
tomorrow's battle all the way to the one that they would fight a 
thousand years hence. And maybe Sinclair had a duty to change that. Make 
them see past the oath that blinded them. But he did not see how. Not 
now. Not with what was at stake.

He rose from the bed and walked over to the kitchen to get a drink of 
water. His whole problem with them was that at the root of it all was 
guilt. He felt guilty that he had not seen this almost suicidal streak 
in them sooner, and done something about it. But then, no one had really 
helped him come to grips with the meaning behind these strange, 
fanatical, loyal warriors. They had just been given to him. Dumped was 
more likely the word, and glad to have been gotten rid of. He had been 
given no choice in the matter. Collapsing back into bed, he sighed, and 
tried to calm himself, cease the endless circling of his questing mind.

But on it went. He thought of what the Vorlon had revealed to them. The 
Balance. He was not sure what he was going to do with what he had 
learnt, but he was sure that he could never again treat Kosh, or any 
Vorlon, with the same instinctive deferrence that he had given them 
before. He felt a quickening of his heart, and knew then that he was 
coming near to the crux of the problem that was keeping him awake. It 
all came down to choice. The Sadaelathi followed him blindly, it was 
true. Perhaps not blindly, but with their level of devotion it amounted 
to about the same thing. But they had made a choice, all of them, and 
followed him in full awareness of the possible consequences of their 
actions. They knew what was at stake, and they had still chosen to 
follow, and thus they were a tool to be used. But expand that picture, 
he thought to himself. What are we all, we humans, the Minbari, the 
Narn, all the others, other than tools in the hands of the Vorlons? We 
follow them, but do we really know why? Do we really know what is at 
stake? The Sadaelathi have pledged themselves body, heart and soul to 
me, and have made my cause their own. And we are in the process of 
pledging men, women, lives, fleets of ships, worlds, ways of life, to 
the Vorlons and against the Shadows. But what do we really know? How 
much choice are we being given? I point and the Sadaelathi go. The 
Vorlons say jump, we all ask how high. But the Sadaelathi have chosen. I 
may not agree with that choice, may resent the responsibility that it 
implies. But can we all truly say that we have chosen? And chosen 
freely?


He jumped when the room's communit suddenly chimed, and the alarm began 
sounding. He rubbed eyes that felt filled with sand, rolled over and 
looked at the clock on the bedside table. 0500. He felt terrible, and 
did not even know if he had managed to sleep. It seemed to him that he 
had passed the whole night away chewing at his mind. He walked over to 
the bathroom and used up the remainder of his water allowance in a 
scalding hot blast. Stepping out, he felt better. He barely had time to 
pull on his underclothes before the door chimed. Shrugging into his blue 
outer robes he opened the door, admitting Imindor. The door whined shut, 
and there was a shimmer in the air as three Sadaelathi turned off their 
cloaking devices. The three who had chosen to go. In silence they 
unstrapped compact looking rifles and equipment belts from their armour.

'Good morning, Sa'Shy Alyt,' they all murmured in unison. The three 
stood quietly as Imindor stepped forward.

'Those who are to battle the darkness have requested the honour of 
attiring the Sa'Shy Alyt for battle.' She said it quietly, and it had 
the ancient ring of ceremony to it.

Sinclair frowned at her, turned his eyes on the other three. They stood 
quietly, eyes downcast, but all with that air of fierce, tigerish pride 
and feline grace that they wore without even seeming to realise. He 
turned back to Imindor, but her eyes gave nothing away. They had given 
nothing away since last night, and Sinclair wondered if he had offended 
her. His mouth tightened. Well, if he had, they had only themselves to 
blame. But, like the Vorlon had said, that was a conversation for 
another time, another place.

He stepped back from her, and turned to face the three warriors. Time to 
play the part, he thought.

'The Sa'Shy Alyt would be honoured for those who are to battle the 
darkness to attire him.' And he spread his arms to them, drawing them in 
to him, allowing them for the first time to pin him to the cross of 
their ideals, of what they needed him to be. As one, the three of them 
came forward, bearing their offerings in their hands. Farindier went 
behind him, removed the robes from his shoulders gently, held his hands 
out to Dramalann who poured out the oil, and began to rub it in. 
Sedaleyine stood in front of him, her eyes at the level of his chin. As 
she began to rub the oil in to his chest, he tried to catch her eyes, 
but she kept them down. He looked over the top of her bonecrest at 
Imindor, but she stood apart from them with her arms folded over her 
breasts. She had removed her midnight blue robes, and instead wore a 
black sash lined with white and gold over her armour, the symbol of the 
Heartguard embroidered upon it. He knew that was her badge of rank among 
the Sadaelathi, and again felt the terrible weight of time and ceremony 
press heavier on him.

Dramalann came forward bearing the suit of armour. He helped Sinclair 
into it, drew it up over his body, fastened it at his neck. Sedaleyine 
wrapped a belt around Sinclair's waist, attached a pistol to his left 
hip, and a pike to his right. Farindier settled the visor that would 
allow Sinclair to see under the cloak over his forehead, for all the 
world as if he were crowning him. To Sinclair's belt, Dramalann attached 
the cloaking device, to his wrists the command unit. Then they were 
done, and they stepped back, bowed with hands to chest, to heart to 
forehead.

'With body, heart, and soul. Honour to serve.'

Sinclair bowed back, profoundly moved despite himself, and had not a 
clue what to say. Imindor stepped into the silence, gave an order in her 
warrior dialect, and the three Sadaelathi hefted their equipment, 
activated their cloaks and vanished from sight. She wrapped her blue 
robe around and over her armour, returning to the guise of an Adept of 
the Fifth Fain of Baltara. 'The others are ready. It is time to go.'

Sinclair nodded, activated his cloak. The three chosen Sadaelathi sprang 
into sight, standing where they had disappeared. Imindor drew the hood 
of her cape up, opened the door, and the three slipped soundlessly out 
into the corridor. Imindor followed them, motioning discreetly for 
Sinclair to do the same. He moved quickly, getting out of the rooms just 
as the door was beginning to close. Imindor led them swiftly back 
towards the Sadaelathi's quarters. Turning a corner, Sinclair saw that 
they were already outside, the remaining four lined up against one of 
the walls. Imindor opened the door into their quarters, already moving 
to take off her robes. She went inside quickly, and was back out almost 
as fast, before the door had finished its cycle, already under cloak. 
She looked around at the assembled warriors, then nodded. As she moved 
over to stand with Sinclair, Onarion again took point and the group 
began to retrace their steps of the night before, back into Downbelow.

Sinclair seemed to move on autopilot, his mind playing over the briefing 
that he had given the Sadaelathi last night, after Kosh had shown them 
what needed to be done. The plan was to send three Sadaelathi through 
the portal with a device to destroy the Nexus. They reached the door 
into the parallel maintanence tunnels. To get through the portal they 
must have a key, the key needing to be of Shadow origin. Kosh had 
intimated that he would provide them with that, as well as with the 
device with which to kill the Nexus. They moved fast, encountering no 
one, until they reached the elevator. However, once through, there would 
be no way back, for the Shadows or those who tended the Nexus would 
realise fast that there were intruders amongst them, and move to block 
them. The elevator began to carry them down, into the bowels of the 
station. The portal would shut behind them. They could only hope that 
the three Sadaelathi would be able to shut it forever. Those who would 
go through would not ever be coming back. The elevator door hissed open, 
and Kosh turned imperiously to face them.

The Sadaelathi filed out of the elevator, Sinclair moving to stand in 
front of Kosh. The Vorlon said nothing. For a moment, Sinclair felt a 
riot of emotions as he stood facing him - trust, devotion, a need to 
believe in the Vorlon, a sense of betrayal, a sense of really seeing an 
old friend for the first time. He shook them all off. Time for them 
later.

'We're ready.'

Without a word, the Vorlon turned and began to glide down the corridor, 
the Sadaelathi following behind, Sinclair following them, Imindor pacing 
him just to the right. At the red hatch, the Vorlon seemed to flow over 
the lintel, the cape of his environment suit shimmering for just an 
instant. At the second corridor on the right they turned. They came to a 
crossing and went right again, at a branching of tunnels they went left, 
the air becoming colder and clammier. The walls were slick with 
condensation, and with oil and lubricants which left heavy residues of 
sludge in the angle of deck and wall. Sinclair wiped stinging sweat away 
from his eyes and felt a sudden wash of dE9jE0-vu. It tingled over 
him, and then he was through it, and he knew that whatever defences the 
portal had, the Vorlon had overcome them. Into the dogleg, right, then 
left, and the corridor opened up and ended just in front of them in a 
dull metal wall, rivets that dripped rust, and a scum of condensation 
and oily sludge along the junction of deck and wall. All eyes turned to 
the Vorlon, who remained at the dogleg, coming no closer than that to 
the wall. Still, he had said nothing. Instead, part of his cape parted. 
On a disc of translucent material were two objects. One was a smooth 
shard of black metal. A metal so black that it seemed to eat the light, 
but that also seemed to shimmer when seen out of the corner of the eye. 
Barely visible, a single character of arachnid script was stamped into 
it. From what Kosh had told him, Ancient Egypt had been young when that 
metal was old, forged in a past and place so distant as to be almost 
unimaginable. The other object was a globe about the size of Sinclair's 
two fists. He could not tell if it was metal or not. It had no colour, 
no texture. It reflected no light, cast no shadow. It just... was. The 
only thing that Kosh had said about it was that it was not Vorlon, but 
something almost older than them, from the time of the War of 
Repudiation, when the Vorlons were still a young race, not yet grown 
into the fullness of their power.

Wordlessly, Sedaleyine, Dramalann and Farindier donned helmets which fit 
the form of their heads. At the touch of a button, the helmets sealed 
themselves to their skin, and to the collars of their armour, leaving 
only the bonecrest exposed. They flipped up their visors. There were no 
goodbyes from the assembled Sadaelathi. They had already said them. But 
the three of them turned to their commander, and bowed to her. Imindor 
returned the bow, and she also said nothing. Then they turned to 
Sinclair. They bowed ritually, hands to chest, heart and forehead. Then 
Sinclair knew what he had to say, what he had been unable to say in his 
rooms. He returned their bow. 'By my body, my heart and my soul, it is 
an honour to be served by such as you.'

The three of them looked at him, and their eyes sparkled with something 
unreadable. Then Sedaleyine smiled, and Farindier said: 'You will do 
well, Sa'Shy Alyt. Remember us to our children. They will serve you 
well, as we hope we have.' Dramalann said nothing, only hefted the heavy 
rifle that he carried. Sinclair nodded, more than a little overcome.

'I will. I promise,' he whispered. He had not known that any of them had 
children. Then Sedaleyine and Farindier turned and reached out and took 
one object each from the transparent disc. The lights on Kosh's carapace 
span musically, the air seemed to shimmer and the portal stood suddenly, 
monolithic and inscrutable, at the end of the corridor. There was an 
instinctive hunching of spirits from the Sadaelathi, and those who were 
to stay knelt and aimed their sleeve guns at the door. Those who were to 
go lowered their visors, Sedaleyine hefting her rifle, Farindier 
cradling the globe against his chest, and moved forward. Sedaleyine held 
the shard of Shadow-forged metal in her left hand, and she held it out 
to Farindier, who closed his right hand over her left, his rifle hanging 
by its sling against his side. Between them, Dramalann couched his rifle 
over his left forearm and took their hands in his left. Hand in hand, 
they walked up to the portal, held up their hands and pressed the metal 
against it. For a moment nothing happened, and then the portal 
shimmered, once, and it seemed to Sinclair as if it sucked the three 
warriors in. They were gone in an instant. The portal shimmered once 
more, then was still.

Those who remained let out their breath, although spirits remained wound 
tight. Kosh had said that it would be over very fast, one way or the 
other. Sinclair forced himself to breath slowly, counting out the 
breaths. 'One, Mississippi, two Mississippi, three...' At five, the 
portal shimmered. At six, it shimmered again, and went suddenly 
transparent. Sinclair gasped as, for an instant, he saw into the Nexus. 
He saw down a dark corridor to where, under a high arch, he saw a 
Sadaelathi, outlined in fire, cast a globe into the air. Another lay 
still on the ground, a third aimed a rifle into the darkness and fired. 
In the split second before it all vanished, he saw the globe transform 
itself, warping into the shape of a spearhead, and seem to take on a 
life of its own, twisting and arcing down to strike at something he 
could not see. In a blast of light the portal went dark once more, 
shimmered a final time, then was gone, as if it had never been.

Sinclair let out a long breath, and heard the same from some of the 
Sadaelathi behind him. Imindor stared with flat eyes at the wall where 
the portal had once stood. He put a hand on her shoulder. She did not 
look at him, but she reached up and covered his hand with one of her 
own. 'Give me a moment, Jeffrey.' He nodded, stepped back and looked at 
Kosh.

'Well?' he asked.

- It is done. The portal is closed forever - With that, the Vorlon 
turned and glided away, past the warriors who stared, like Imindor, at a 
blank and scarred wall. Sinclair moved away as well, walking down the 
corridor, leaving the Sadaelathi time and space to mourn their dead. At 
the dogleg, he turned back and saw them bow to the wall. Imindor said 
something, and there was a reply in unison from the rest of them. 
Feeling tears come to his eyes, he walked around the corner and waited 
for them there. The Vorlon was waiting there as well.

- Sinclair - the Vorlon whispered.

Sinclair looked up, and he was caught like a fly in amber as the green 
light reached out, trapped and held him fast, and scoured all knowledge 
of the Balance and all doubts about the Vorlons that stemmed from it 
from his mind...

* * *

Sheridan was shaving when the communit chimed. Putting his shaver down, 
he walked into his living room over to the unit. 'Receive.' The clock in 
the corner of the unit read 0715.

'Captain,' said Delenn, a look of gravity in her eyes. 'I am just 
calling to tell you that my friends from Minbar are leaving now. They 
have... seen and done what they came to do. They asked me to convey 
their thanks for your assistance to them.'

Sheridan nodded, felt a great weight lifted from his shoulders that he 
had not even known was there. 'Tell them... Tell them that I was pleased 
to offer them the hospitality of the station. They are welcome to come 
back at any time.'

'Thankyou, Captain. I will see you later on today.' Her eyes promised 
him that he would get a full account of what happened.

* * *

'Jeff.' The word was said quietly, but it stopped them all in their 
tracks. The tall Minbari at the head of the party paused, then turned. 
Garibaldi stood back at the customs post, hands in his pockets, wearing 
the unconscious slouch he always seemed to have. 'Were you really 
planning on leaving without saying goodbye?'

Sinclair, everything but his eyes hidden under the illusion he wore of a 
Minbari head, turned to Imindor. 'Send the others to the ship. I will be 
along in a moment.' Imindor gave an order to the other assembled Minbari 
who moved on towards the Ylliann, but she remained with Sinclair, a 
respectful distance away. Garibaldi walked up to his old commanding 
officer. Sinclair smiled. 'I was hoping that you would be able to make 
it, Michael. No I didn't want to leave without saying goodbye. I just 
didn't want to call attention to either you or I.' Garibaldi said 
nothing, neither agreeing or disagreeing, nor helping Sinclair along 
with one of the little throwaway comments that he often had. Sinclair 
seemed to see that. He moved closer to the Security Chief. 'Michael, you 
know that I would've liked nothing more than to have spent time with 
you, catching up on old times. But, things didn't work out that way. 
Maybe next time...'

'There won't be a next time, Jeff. You and I both know it. You've moved 
beyond me. You're different. Changed.' Garibaldi stepped closer, looked 
deep into Sinclair's eyes. 'Damn, Jeff. What are they doing to you 
there?' The whole weight of a friendship that was slipping away was put 
into those words. 'You talk like a Minbari. You dress like one. You keep 
secrets like one. You even have their eyes. But where are you?'

Sinclair felt the words cut deep, wished that he could explain better to 
his old friend. 'I'm sorry, Michael. I truly am. But there are things 
that...'

'... you just can't explain, and that I just wouldn't understand,' 
finished Garibaldi. 'Save it, Jeff. I've heard that line once too often 
lately.'

Sinclair nodded. 'Alright then.' He turned to go, paused and turned 
back, looked down at the deck. 'Please, Michael. Whatever else you 
believe, please, just... remember that I am your friend. The path I 
follow has taken me away from here, and from you, and it will take me 
further still before I reach its end. But don't ever think that I am no 
longer your friend. Its just... Its just...'

'Jeff, you're gonna miss your ship,' said Garibaldi, gently. Sinclair 
looked up, saw the middle ground in Garibaldi's eyes, and something akin 
to understanding of the position that Sinclair was in. Sinclair smiled 
gratefully, and held out his hand. Garibaldi took it, the two of them 
shook. Sinclair backed away, smiled, turned and began walking towards 
his ship. Imindor followed him, then Garibaldi saw her pause. She looked 
at Sinclair's back for a moment, saw another of her people standing at 
the Ylliann's airlock, and turned back to Garibaldi. She walked back 
down the concourse towards him, seeming to glide more than walk in those 
long blue robes. She stopped close to Garibaldi. She was shorter than he 
was, but it was hard to notice with those intense eyes of hers demanding 
all your attention. Garibaldi straightened unconsciously under her gaze.

'Michael Garibaldi,' she said. 'He has often spoken of you, and highly. 
He misses you.' Garibaldi felt a sudden lump in his throat. 'You once 
stood where I stand now. You were his right hand, you protected him from 
harm. Yes?'

Garibaldi was at a loss for words. 'Yeah,' he managed finally. 'Yeah, I 
guess you could say that.'

Imindor nodded. 'Do not fear for him, Kaan Alyt,' she said, addressing 
him as an equal. There was a softening to the severity of her eyes. 'He 
is mine to ward, now. I will not let him come to harm. Upon my oath, I 
will not.'

Garibaldi guessed that it was the nearest thing to an olive branch that 
he could ever expect from her, and the nearest that she could come to 
saying that she understood something of what he was feeling. He bowed 
his head to her. 'Thankyou,' he said. She nodded, then turned away from 
him and walked over to the ship. Sinclair stood there in the airlock, 
looking back at them. He raised his hand and waved. Garibaldi waved 
back, and watched as the airlock cycled shut and the docking platform 
began to descend, taking the flyer down into the launching tube. He 
turned to go, his heart like a dull weight in his chest. She would 
protect him from harm, she had said. But she would not, or could not, do 
the one thing that Garibaldi had always tried to do, and that was 
protect Sinclair from himself.

* * *

Ivanova buttoned up her jacket and headed for the door, putting down her 
cup of tea on the kitchen counter as she passed. The door knifed open, 
and she stopped suddenly, the shape of the Vorlon Ambassador filling the 
narrow entrance. A confused greeting was on the tip of her tongue when 
the iris in the front of Kosh's helmet opened and she was caught like a 
fly in amber as the green light reached out, trapped and held her fast, 
and scoured all knowledge of the Balance and all doubts about the 
Vorlons that stemmed from it from her mind...

* * *

The clamour of the Vorlon Consensus was loud in his mind as Kosh 
returned to his quarters. His actions in removing all knowledge of the 
Balance from the minds of those who had heard of it had perhaps averted 
a consensus forming on his recall, or perhaps on something even worse. 
That he had even revealed it at all rattled him deeply. He had never 
thought himself capable of such a lapse. The faction that had always 
opposed any deferential treatment of the younger races, the Immutables, 
was strong and dominant, accusing him of weakness, of being corrupted by 
the ways of lesser beings, of having spent too long alone amongst them.

- It is done - he called, although they knew already - The mistake is 
rectified. They remember nothing -

- IT WAS INEXCUSABLE - came the strident voice of the Immutables.


- IT WAS IMPARDONABLE - came a stinging rebuff from the Apprehensives. - 
YOU HAVE RISKED TOO MUCH ON SUCH LESSER BEINGS TOO OFTEN -

Kosh remained silent, accepting the rebukes, and dreading the consensus 
that they were on the cusp of forming, that which would call him home 
forever. But behind the bluster of the Immutables and the Apprehensives 
he felt a gathering of forces from the other factions. Remaining silent 
and impotent, he allowed his allies in the Consensus to fight for him.

* * *

The sound of children singing rose into the clear, morning air, the 
words floating on the breeze to where Sinclair sat, his robes folded 
around him, on a stone bench under an old tree. The tree stood in the 
gardens of the Sadaelathi compound, had stood here since the order was 
founded, a thousand years ago. Its leaves were long and triangular, like 
elongated spearheads, and they sighed and swayed in the gentle breeze, 
Minbar's weak sun flickering teasingly in and out of view between them. 
>From somewhere in the garden, an elusive Mystery bird gave voice to its 
eeirily haunting call.

The compound was a beautiful place. Sinclair had been surprised by just 
how beautiful. And full of colour. The entrance hall had been high and 
airy, the stone seeming to flow into the air, and all was dappled in the 
light cast through exquisite stained glass windows. Carpets of intricate 
and delicate weave lay upon the floor, and between them the stone was 
white and gold. Under a vaulting dome with blue crystal glass at the 
apex, the symbol of the Sadaelathi was laid out in mosaic, a sword and 
eye above a representation of Minbar. Moving through the halls and under 
vaulting roofs, and he had shivered a moment when the sound of deep 
voices chanting reached him from somewhere deep within the ancient 
building. And the gardens. Enclosed by three walls, the fourth side open 
to the view of Cloud-dancer and his Maidens that Sinclair had come to 
love in his time on Minbar, they were a sward of emerald grass, beds of 
flowers with exotic fragrances, and birds that flitted like rainbow 
glints through the branches of the trees. And all of it was laid out 
with this tree, under which he sat, as the centre of it all. Sinclair 
had not expected this from the Sadaelathi. Not from his dour, oathbound 
warriors.

There was a sound of excited young voices, and then an adolescent 
admonishment to silence. Little feet crunched on the gravel path, and 
Sinclair looked up to see four children coming towards him, shepherded 
by Imindor behind them. Sinclair rose to his feet, and the four children 
looked up at him with solemn expressions that belied their ages. Against 
the black of Imindor's robes, they were dressed in bright colours, 
scarfs wrapped about their necks, and the smallest wore gloves on his 
hands against the morning chill. Their bonecrests stood up like halos 
over the domes of their skulls. He smiled down at them, and the smallest 
smiled back, Sedaleyine smiling through him for a moment, although the 
eldest tried to maintain her dignified expression. Sinclair looked at 
Imindor, and she smiled, a gentle smile, full of melancholy. They shared 
a long look, her eyes misty bright, and then he nodded, and she turned 
away, leaving him alone with them, gliding away down the path, her feet 
making barely a sound on the gravel. He looked back down at the four 
children. One day, when their training was done, they would put aside 
their bright clothes and their games and singing, and they would don the 
black mantle of the Sadaelathi. But the path these children would grow 
up to follow need not be the one that their parents had taken. Not 
anymore. Sinclair knelt down and opened his arms to the little boy. He 
came trustingly, and Sinclair lifted him up into the crook of his arm. 
The little boy reached out with his gloved hands and touched Sinclair's 
hair, to outraged gasps from the other three. Sinclair smiled at them, 
at the little boy in his arms, held out his hand to the girl, and after 
a moment, she took it.

'Come,' he said to them, drawing her close to him. For a moment, she 
hesitated, too much in awe of the Sa'Shy Alyt. Then his gentle warmth 
won out, and she pressed herself to his side. With his smile he pulled 
the other two close as well. 'Walk with me a little way. I want to tell 
you a story about your parents...'

THE END