Hours later, when only the Shadow Crier remained in the room, trapped both by his chains and by his madness, the door opened again and a lone figure entered.

"Hello again," he said. "I understand you had visitors recently. Did you show them what you showed me?"

Blood filled the Shadow Crier's mouth and he let it dribble from between his lips, not saying anything. He had probably not enough sanity left to be able to utter anything but that one refrain, and the new arrival had heard that often enough in recent days.

"I suppose you did. It doesn't matter." He walked to the centre of the room, heedless of what he was stepping into, or over. Lesser worries were for lesser people.

"Show me. Again."

The prisoner continued to drool blood, but in his eyes, and in his mind, something stirred, again. Prince Cartagia felt his hearts quicken in anticipation, as he was once again projected into a world that not even his demented mind could have envisaged unaided. He stood there for many minutes, basking in the glory of the visions, whispering the words of the Shadow Crier's prophecy to himself.

Then, the vision over and the prisoner slumping back into unconsciousness, Cartagia left. There was no sign of his presence there, no trace of his parting….

John Sheridan broke into a run the instant he left the shuttle, racing for Babylon 4's Command and Control. Corwin followed at a brisk walk. They had been met in the docking bay by a group of Narn Rangers, many sporting fresh wounds or hasty bandages.

The first person Sheridan saw on the command deck was Delenn. Without slowing his pace he ran to her and hugged her, lifting her up into the air. She smiled and kissed him intensely, holding on to him even as he let her down.

"What's the status here?" he asked, not taking his eyes from hers.

"The men Captain Smith left on board are secure," she replied. "We have had no word from the planet. We were just on the point of sending another party down there to investigate."

"A good idea," he said, and she smiled. "Do you know anything about whether Bester was involved there or not?"

"No. Not for sure."

"Well, whether he was or not, I think we've pretty much cut all our ties to Sanctuary now." He broke his gaze away from her to look at Corwin, just arriving. He was talking with the leader of the group of Rangers, a Narn named G'Dok.

"You have a place at Kazomi Seven," she said. "All of you, and Mr. Bester can…." She paused, and blushed. "G'Dok, what word from the Babylon?"

"Captain Smith has surrendered and will be brought back on board as soon as possible. The shuttle to the surface is also being prepared."

She nodded. "We have to…." She started, and there were gasps and the gentle sound of drawn swords from the Rangers.

A holographic Michael Garibaldi appeared before them. "Uh…. hi," he said, somewhat awkwardly. "This thing ain't easy, you know."

"Where is the Ha'Cormar'ah?" snapped G'Dok.

"He's alive. Ta'Lon as well, although they're both in bad shape. A medical shuttle would be a nice idea, as soon as possible. Don't worry about me. I'm only a fill-in. He can have this thing back as soon as he wants it. But…. we've got a problem here. A big one."

"You don't say," Corwin replied.

Vorlon ships were hardly commonplace anywhere in the galaxy, at least not in the areas occupied by the younger races. Other than their unexpected and largely unexplained arrival at the Battle of the Second Line at Proxima 3 a year and a half ago, sightings had been extremely rare and often disputed.

What was not disputed was that, a little less than a year ago, one such Vorlon ship had arrived at Kazomi 7, at a time when the United Alliance had barely flown from its nest. Someone had disembarked, a human by all accounts, however absurd such accounts were. He had spent some time on the planet and had then left. No one on the planet had seen the Vorlon itself.

Another Vorlon ship had now arrived. It was in fact the same one, although no one was aware of this. But for two people on the planet, touched more intimately by the Vorlons than almost any other, this arrival was not a surprise.

The Alliance council was hastily summoned, with much debate about who was to chair it in the absence of both Delenn and Lethke. Vizhak, Drazi Minister of the Interior, was eventually elected. Valen was formally requested to attend the meeting, although he had no official capacity on the Council. He insisted on Catherine attending also, and no one dared to contradict him. Vejar the technomage declined to attend. He was in fact, as later testimonies would reveal, conspicuous only by his absence throughout the Vorlon's stay on the planet.

When the Vorlon swept majestically into the Council chamber, there was a single united gasp of sheer awe. Valen rose to his feet, recognising something familiar in some way he could not identify. Catherine remained seated.

"We bid you welcome to our world," said Vizhak, in a moment of uncharacteristic politeness. "It is good to know our…. messages…. were…. received…." The Vorlon seemed to be ignoring him, staring — if that was the right word — at Valen and Catherine.

Then, after a moment of agonising silence, the Vorlon's headpiece nodded once as if in satisfaction. He surveyed the others in attendance. Vizhak, the representatives from the Abbai, Llort and Mutai, even the new Narn Ambassador, who was seemingly on the verge of apoplexy.

<Kosh,> the Vorlon said. <I am Kosh.>

"Welcome, Ambas…. er…. Ambassador Kosh," Vizhak said.

<Are you ready?> he asked, and Valen felt a chill.

"We're ready," he said softly, painfully. He could see his own footsteps before him.

"No!" Catherine cried, leaping up. "What do you want here? What do you…?" She fell silent as the Vorlon's gaze rested on her.

<There is no more time. Destiny awaits. The past calls you.> A brief hesitation. <Both.>

"What do you want of us?" asked Vizhak tentatively. He was ashamed of himself for wishing Delenn or Lethke were here. Or even Taan Churok, may all his Gods blight his soul for thinking so.

The Vorlon spoke only one word, and it was filled with emotions none but Valen could detect, for he felt them too. Anger, yes, but more than that, a sadness so intense it swamped almost everything. A deep and regretful sense of longing, of sorrow, of knowledge of what would soon be lost.

<War.>

Ambassador David Sheridan had been a career diplomat in his former life, and he still retained skills from that time which were beneficial to those he served in this new life. The foremost of those skills — particularly useful now — was knowing when the local leader was in a bad mood, and just how to soothe that bad mood.

Never forget where your loyalties lie…. that was the essential rule of the diplomatic official. Loyalty, the greatest virtue anyone could ever have.

"The President will see you now," said the secretary. Sheridan looked at her with a cold and forbidding gaze. Never before had the President failed to admit him immediately and directly. The man was changing, becoming…. less amenable. Damn Ivanova! If she had done her job properly then there would be no need for this battle of wits with Clark. A Keeper-controlled President should be their greatest tool, but somehow…. somewhere…. something had gone wrong.

Not even the Zener could identify what it was, but admittedly they were working from old medical records. The President resolutely refused to be examined directly.