There was a brief movement in front of him, and a Soul Hunter came into view. Its ancient, hateful gaze fixed upon him for a moment, and then it stepped aside. Kozorr continued, thinking dark thoughts.

The Soul Hunter went to Sinoval, and they talked briefly, in hushed tones. Kozorr did not hear what they said, but Sinoval's expression was dark indeed.

They called it the Pit. Its more official designation was Sector 301 of the Main City Dome of Proxima 3, but the title of the Pit had been coined many years ago, and it had stuck.

It was appropriate as well, for the Pit was where Proxima dumped all its refuse, all its unwanted, all its discards, its trash, its rubbish. The security forces in the sector were notoriously corrupt, and all the MegaCorps avoided it like the plague.

It was a place of broken dreams and lost souls.

It was therefore hardly the sort of place one might expect to find a celebrated war hero, a man who had appeared among the Top Ten People of 2259 in Humanity magazine, and whom a poll had voted the Seventh Sexiest Man Alive in the same year.

For former Captain Dexter Smith however, the Pit was home.

It had been a few weeks since his honourable discharge from Earthforce, and the time had passed in a sort of blur. He had declined a number of interviews with news reporters, an offer of a weekly column in Universe Today, a regular panel slot on New News and several proposals of marriage. His discharge from the military had been big news for a while, and he was slightly amused to discover the official reason given was 'health problems, resulting from injuries sustained in long-term combat situations'.

If only half the people now interested in him had had any clue as to what those 'long-term combat situations' had been like, the world might be a better place. A great many people claimed to want the truth about his experiences in the war, and he had only been able to shake his head and reply that, no, they didn't at all.

And so he had come to the Pit to disappear. That was easy. Things disappeared in the Pit with a depressing lack of effort. The news moved on; the big story at the moment being the launch of the new warship, the Saint-Germain under Captain DeClerq. The Saint-Germain was one of the new type of warship, the Warlock class, which would take Earthforce well into the new decade.

Smith listened to all this, and shrugged. He did not know DeClerq all that well, but he certainly knew of the man. It was fortunate that the media hadn't been doing their homework recently. Otherwise they would be all over the 'Coward of Vega 7' leading one of the new warships.

Still, everyone deserved a second chance, and it wasn't as if experienced soldiers were all that thick on the ground any more.

Smith switched off the news channel and absently flicked through the others. The reception here in the Pit was less than perfect and some channels were unavailable, but from those could get he was far from impressed. It had been a while since he had watched any of the vidscreens, but surely things hadn't been this bad before? He paused briefly at a remake of Macbeth, but then shuddered the instant he heard the dialogue, and switched off.

Pacing up and down his apartment didn't alleviate his boredom for long either, especially as there wasn't much of his apartment to pace up and down in. He could have afforded a better place than this — most beggars could probably have afforded a better place than this — but he was…. content with his choice.

It reminded him of home.

He had been quite upset to hear that the apartment block he had been brought up in had been demolished. Upset, but far from surprised. The place had been a hazard to life and limb even then, before the massive inrush of refugees from Orion and elsewhere had swamped Proxima. Still, it had been…. a place to live. There were a few pleasant memories. Not many, admittedly, but a few.

Sighing in exasperation, he grabbed a coat and went out for a walk.

Another thing he would never get used to was wearing civilian clothes again. He had been wearing a uniform for over half his life, since he had joined Earthforce at fifteen following some creative accountancy over trivial details such as age, address and parentage. Fashions had been very different then, and he had no idea what to wear now. A vague wander around the precincts in the Meadowhall Dome had not helped much, and he had settled for what he could find. Of course, in Sector 301, that would mean he would stick out like a Pak'Ma'Ra at a gourmet luncheon, but it would have to do.

He had no idea where he was going, what he was going to do when he got there or who he could go to see.

He also had no idea that someone was watching him.

Delenn looked up at the monument before her and breathed out slowly. It was not complete yet, and maybe it never would be, but for the moment it was there; a testament to the bloodshed and death that had resulted in a renewed hope.

How fragile that hope seemed now. But even if the Alliance ended tomorrow, they would still have accomplished a great deal of good. That was something, at least. It did not seem a terribly comforting thought, but it was better than nothing.

The original plan had been to list on the giant archway everyone who had died during the Drakh invasion, but that had rapidly proved to be impossible. There were just too many dead, and the vast majority of them could not be identified. All the records had been destroyed and the immigration and trading lists had been less than accurate anyway.

Delenn had proposed another idea however, having once heard a story from John. It had seemed hauntingly appropriate, and not for the first time she had wondered at the poetry and beauty of the race she had very nearly destroyed.

Over three hundred years ago, there had been a bloody, terrible war among humanity. An entire generation of young men had been slaughtered. It had been called, with tragic inaccuracy, 'the war to end all wars'. Afterwards, in a bid for some sort of legacy, one of the nations involved had devised a new memorial. Six coffins were taken from among the thousands of unidentified dead wearing that country's uniform, and in a moving ceremony an ordinary soldier selected one of these coffins at random. One body, representing all the dead. One brave soul, serving as a reminder of all brave souls. The body was buried under a huge archway in the centre of the capital city, and an eternal flame lit to burn forever over the 'Tomb of the Unknown Warrior'.

That tomb was gone now, but the poetry of the concept remained, and Delenn had managed to reinstate it here. A body had been found, one among many that could not be identified, and it had been buried here, representing all those who had died in the Drakh invasion.

A tiny, insignificant atonement for all she had destroyed.

There was a soft cough behind her and she turned, lost in her thoughts. She had completely forgotten that she had come here to wait for someone.

"Lyta," she said smiling, hugging her friend warmly. "It has been…. too long since we last spoke."

"Yes," Lyta said, a trifle hesitantly, returning the hug tentatively. "We've been…. busy."

Delenn pulled back, looking at her friend. "Something is wrong, isn't it? That's why you asked to meet me here."

"Yes. He…. doesn't like this place. Not at all. His…. influence isn't so strong here, for some reason."

"Vejar blessed this shrine when it was constructed," Delenn said thoughtfully. "He said it would never be destroyed, never decay, never tarnish. He said it would still be here when the planet itself crumbled into dust."