And then there were the undecided. The tiny worlds. The small, little empires. The Sh'Lassan Triumvirate. The Gaim. The Vree. The Hyach. The Abbai. Either members of the Alliance but with very little tie, or completely neutral. All small, easily snapped up by whichever side chose to go for them.

But there was one thing none of them could count on. The cosmic wild card. Sinoval. Influencing him to join either side was a futile effort. Oh, not that they hadn't tried. The other side had attempted assassination, but…. there had been other ways, originating from Z'ha'dum. They had failed so far, but…. things were progressing well enough.

How long did he have left? An hour, Delenn had given him. Hmm…. no, they would not be likely to let him see John again. A shame. He wanted to see his son again. It might be for the last time. Delenn would not be at all interested in coming to get the cure now. Well, if she saw what the cure was doing to certain Minbari, she would not want it anyway.

He sighed. He missed John. He was all that was left of his family. A man should always have a reason for fighting, for striving. Oh, the betterment of the race, liberty, fraternity, equality, freedom…. all of these were good buzzwords and slogans, but he knew that none of them meant anything. A family. Blood. Love. They were things worth fighting for.

So why was he still fighting? Why hadn't he retired and gone back home to die in peace, and be free from all the errors of his past?

He had another reason for pursuing this war. Something else he had said when asked his fatal question.

"What do you want?"

Peace. My family safe. An end to the nightmares. My people safe.

And revenge on the ones who did this to us.

With a soft sigh, David Sheridan fixed the memory of his son and only surviving child in mind as he went to catch the shuttle that would take him away from John's deathbed.

Someone else was at John's deathbed, someone who had just begun a terrifying war that would no doubt create many more deathbeds, and ensure that there were too many people to fill them.

As she looked at him, Delenn gently touched his forehead. He was sleeping. At least she thought so. His skin was very hot, almost painful to the touch, but she kept contact with him. Before long she would lose the chance.

"Delenn?" he whispered at last. "Are you…?"

"I'm here," she said softly in reply. His eyes flickered open. They were bloodshot and haunted.

"Had…. dreams…. Dreaming now…. See…. things…."

"What things?" she asked. According to the reports she had received, Kalain had been delusional for many months as the virus coursed through his system. He might well have suffered hallucinations.

John chuckled softly; a hideous sound, entirely devoid of laughter. "My…. Dad…. I…. saw…. my Dad…. He was…. working for…. for…. them…." The sweat was standing out on his brow. "A…. stupid…. dream…. wasn't it?" The last two words were a plaintive cry.

Delenn blinked away tears. "Yes," she lied softly, thereby making the second greatest mistake of her life, one that would be even harder to atone for than the first. "Yes. It was just a dream.

"Just…. a dream."

The next day the new Vorlon Ambassador came before the Council of the United Alliance. He gave his name as Ulkesh Naranek, and Delenn shivered as she recognised him from a long time ago, another life. Lyta walked before him, as his herald. He had been here for some time, and he had been waiting. Waiting for the mortal beings to make their own choice as to where they stood.

Elsewhere, Ambassador David Sheridan returned to Z'ha'dum and reported his failure sorrowfully to his superiors. He provided as full reports as he could on all the members of the Council, save one. The report on Delenn of Mir was left to his aide, the one person who had once known her better than anyone else alive. Neroon's analysis was most comprehensive.

Captain Dexter Smith went out into the cities of Proxima 3, and inevitably found himself among the people of his old home. Sector 301. The Pit. It had changed very little since he had last seen it. He found an apartment and lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling long into the night.

On Centauri Prime, Mr. Morden met with an old acquaintance, and was delighted to hear that Vir Cotto had gone up in the world slightly since their last meeting. Much was said about Emperor Mollari and about Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar. Meanwhile, Lord-General Marrago and Minister Durano continued their graceful, elegant dance around each other, gambling their lives, their future and their planet on who would win their little contest for power over the other.

Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar was somewhere out in deep space, making preparations for his arrival on Centauri Prime. He was somewhat surprised to discover that Mr. Morden was already there.

Alfred Bester sat alone in his dark chair, thinking about the day when Sanctuary would become anything but.

Kozorr and Sonovar spoke long into the night; about Kats, about Sinoval, about the Soul Hunters, about honour and duty and the warrior's code. By the time the night was over, Kozorr had unwittingly agreed to Sonovar's plans. It would merely take a little longer to reinforce the suggestions. Forell hung ever-attentive in the background.

Ulkesh Naranek spoke of war.

And somewhere in deep space, at a vital crossroads on a Brakiri trading route, four Shadow vessels shimmered out of hyperspace and attacked the three Brakiri trading ships they encountered there.

There were no survivors.