"Far better to let it burn, and then pick up the ashes…. don't you think?"

Londo stood alone in his dark cell, remembering that conversation; remembering the eyes of his old friend, so very old; remembering the light touch of his wife; remembering the glee in Elrisia's expression; and remembering above all the sight of his beloved city in flames.

"The Darkness is coming!"

No, Londo decided. The Darkness is here.

With a strength born from suffering, Ta'Lon knocked Tu'Pari aside. The assassin fell sprawling and tried to roll over and up to his feet. The Ranger was too fast for him however, darting forward and charging into him. Blows rained down on Tu'Pari's face.

Tu'Pari had served with the Thenta Ma'Kur for many years and it had taught him a great deal about the art of killing, but that was killing by stealth, through secrecy, the thin blade in the night, the poison in the wine cup.

Ta'Lon had been forged in the fires of war and occupation. He had wandered, rootless and without direction, until he had met G'Kar, and then he had gained a purpose. He had been trained in war and fighting as well as in many of the same skills as Tu'Pari, but there was one crucial difference.

Ta'Lon believed, and that belief gave him the force to survive, to prevail, and to triumph.

He rose above the assassin, lifted Tu'Pari's head, and dashed it to the ground.

There was a crack as his neck broke.

"Ta'Lon," breathed G'Kar's hoarse voice. "Help…. me…. up…. The…. Machine…."

"You cannot, Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar," Ta'Lon replied as he tried to limp forward. The ground beneath them was shaking and trembling. The planet itself seemed to be in revolt.

"You are too weak, Ha'Cormar'ah. You…. need to…." Ta'Lon swayed and almost fell. "You…. must…."

"The Machine needs me! It…. needs…."

Garibaldi stood up. He seemed strangely centred, all his problems falling away. "You need someone in that thing? I'll do it."

Somewhere…. in a place unvisited by any human, unknown to all of the younger races, two Vorlons were speaking, in a conversation that was not carried out in words….

The bargain?

I remember. I will comply.

We were not ready.

You were ready. Who else could have done this?

We knew nothing. We do not control all the mortals.

You control enough.

The bargain?

I remember. I am going. All will be done as it was done. He will accomplish his destiny. The past will be served, and all hope for the future will be lost.

The future is ours.

And the past is ours. A fair trade.

And your fate?

I remember. I accept.

Good.

"The Shadows are coming. The Shadows are coming. The Shadows are coming. The Shadows are coming."

Susan Ivanova began to stir from her torpor, the instructions in her mind becoming clear again.

"The Shadows are coming. The Shadows are coming."

A part of her that had been lost for so long began to return. She knew what must be done, and what part she would play in it.

"The Shadows are coming."

There were times, he knew, when every soldier thought about death. How it would come, where, when, what would he have done just before? Would he have remembered to say goodbye, or would the thought simply have slipped his mind?

Captain Dexter Smith found himself wondering who there was he could have said goodbye to. Other than his crew there was no one, and his crew was here with him. They knew the situation as well as he did. They knew how his haste and foolishness had betrayed them all and brought them to this. Brought them to their deaths.

He had managed to save the other ships though. That was something. The Morningstar and the Marten had gone, the energy from their jump points just fading. Smith stood alone, staring out at the ranks of his enemies — the Parmenion and the Starkiller, the Drazi ships, the station itself, and whoever now ruled supreme on the planet below.

He wanted to say that he was sorry, but the words would not come, and he was not sure if anyone would listen. He found himself thinking, almost absurdly, of Lieutenant Stoner. He had always believed he would see her again one day. An absurd notion. She had betrayed him after all, him and every one on board this ship. Still, he had wanted to see her.

"What's their status?" he asked Franklin. Franklin had been on this ship longer than Smith himself had. He had been here in the days of Sheridan, whose ghost hovered even nearer than it had before.

"They're not attacking. The Parmenion is approaching slowly with gun ports open, but they do not seem to be powering up. The other ships are holding back. There's no sign of any further activity from the planet."

Smith nodded, sitting back. Sheridan then. Fitting enough that he'd want to end this.

"A message is coming through, Captain," said Franklin. "It's…. it's from Captain Sheridan."

Smith's mouth felt very dry. "Put…. put him on." He closed his eyes, and pressed his hands together as if in prayer.

"This is Captain Sheridan of the EAS Parmenion, to the Babylon and its captain. You are alone and outnumbered. Surrender now, and we will spare you."

"This is Captain Dexter Smith of the Babylon. I demand an amnesty for my crew." It seemed so easy to say it now. It was simply what had to be done. He had got his crew into this, and now he would have to get them out. "A complete amnesty and the right to return to Proxima Three unharmed."

"You're in no position to make any demands at all, Captain."

"Nevertheless, those are my conditions. Such an amnesty would not extend to myself of course. I…. I will agree to stand trial and submit to whatever fate you see fit so long as my crew are permitted to leave."

"Captain!" breathed Franklin, but Smith silenced him. There really was no other option.

"I see," said Sheridan. "Well then, Captain, I cannot promise to accept your offer, but I will speak on your behalf to others. You have my word on that."

"Well then. It seems that is all I can ask for. The Babylon stands down."

"Prepare to be boarded, and we will escort you to Babylon Four."

Smith nodded and began to give the necessary orders. His bridge crew carried them out in stunned silence. He did not look at them as they did so. He could not bear to see their faces, knowing his fate to come.

Some words, once spoken, can never be taken back. Some offers, once made, can never be withdrawn. Michael Garibaldi, staring at the scenes of carnage before him, knew that he had made just such an offer.

"You want someone to go in that thing? I'll do it."

There was silence as he looked at the few people still alive and conscious in the room. G'Kar, the Narn who had previously occupied the Heart of the Great Machine, was leaning heavily against his servant Ta'Lon, who was himself covered with blood. The mass of torn tissue around Ta'Lon's eye seemed a mark of his inner strength. Dr. Kirkish, her face pale, was swallowing harshly, trying to speak perhaps, but unable to do so.

The first to speak was in fact none of those, but a strange, clicking voice just out of sight. "Yes. Good good. Enter. Hurry. We be having very little of time. Well, what Zathras mean to say is that time is, infinite of course. Hah yes, infinite. Everyone knows that. Zathras knows that. But…. ah…. Zathras forget what he be saying. Ah, cannot have been important."