She paused.

"And if a single one of you puts revenge above the overall plan, I'll personally skin him alive.

"Let's go."

You will obey us

Sinoval lifted his head and opened his eyes. Around him he could hear the screams, the waiting, anticipating

things

from elsewhere, from behind the barriers of hyperspace. The

things

the Vorlons had brought through.

The human was standing there, still, not breathing, a faint, satisfied smile on his face.

"You would be Sebastian," Sinoval whispered.

The journey through hyperspace had never felt like that before. The Aliens were nearer than he had suspected. He had seen their city in the dreamscape where Sheridan and he had been imprisoned, but that had not been entirely real, just the reflection of the night sky in a lake filled with the black blood of the dying.

The things that had reached out to him in hyperspace were real, terrifyingly real, and close to breaking through.

"I am. Inquisitor Sebastian of the Order of Seekers for Truth and Penitence, to allow myself my full title."

"Of course." Sinoval coughed, trying to remember how to breathe, trying to remember how to force his heart to keep beating. "Formality." He sat back on his heels. "Sinoval, once of the Wind Swords, Primarch Majestus et Conclavus, Lord of Cathedral."

"Formality indeed," Sebastian intoned. "It is always good to meet with politeness, with someone who recognises that manners are inherently necessary in a diplomatic meeting such as this. In the interests of formality, may I inform you that the Lights Cardinal of the Vorlon High Command have ordered you placed under arrest for various and sundry crimes against the natural order of the galaxy. You are to be transported to Their August Presence, alive if possible, but should you resist I am to take you to them dead. Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly," he breathed. His breath was coming more strongly now, and his body was beginning to feel more normal. His muscles were tense, ready for the explosion of motion that would begin this. His fingers slowly curled around Stormbringer's hilt.

"Those who have aided or assisted you in your crimes are also to be placed under arrest," Sebastian added. "I have already begun this process."

He stepped to one side, a single tap of his cane on the floor punctuating the motion.

Kats was there, lying still and unconscious on the floor.

She was not dead. Even weakened and confused, Sinoval could see that, but she was hurt. The sight of her fragile, gentle beauty touched him in a way he could not have anticipated. It had been two years or more since he had last seen her, before Golgotha, before Sheridan, before the black heart of night beating in the necropolis crafted by dreams.

It had been easy to push her out of his mind, but now she was here before him, vulnerable and wounded, and he had not been expecting her.

The Well tried to cry out a warning to him, but the voice was distant and he did not react as quickly as he should have done. He tried to move forward, but Sebastian was ready for him. The cane swung in a smooth, graceful semi–circle and smashed into the side of his head. He fell, reeling, stunned by the electricity crackling from the length of the cane.

"I am authorised, and indeed requested," Sebastian said, "to use whatever force I deem necessary in the pursuit of my duty."

He struck Sinoval again.

You will obey us

For Senator Dexter Smith, sleep was not something to be welcomed. Not now. It was not that he suffered from insomnia, in fact that would have been preferable. It was that when he slept he dreamed of the grave, of worms eating his flesh, of cold damp soil filling his mouth and his eyes, of skin cracking and rotting and becoming dust.

He had to will himself to wake, and then there was nothing to do but stare up at the ceiling, careful not to wake Talia. She was sleeping well, and he supposed he should envy her that, but he could not. He doubted he could envy anyone anything.

He could hardly bring himself to touch her. Her skin was cold and clammy, her hair smelled of mist in a graveyard, her heartbeat was the slow, dying thud of a drum whose drummer is losing strength.

Sometimes she felt warm, and at those times he let her stay with him and sleep beside him. They did nothing else. He could hardly bring himself to touch her, or anyone else. He could not bring himself to kiss her. It was only the gentle touch of her mind that made her presence bearable.

It was not that he had stopped feeling for her. He doubted he would ever do that, but he could see no point in anything. He could see only death in everything and everyone. Even in her.

Little things provoked strange memories within him. He thought about kissing her, and he remembered the first girl he had ever kissed, only now she was not full of life, with a shy glint in her eyes and shaking almost as hard as himself. Now she was a hollow skeleton, her lips blue with cold and skin that broke at his touch, revealing emptiness beneath.

Every other memory he had was the same. Everyone he remembered was dead, a skeleton, a revenant.

Was that what death was like, he wondered frequently, the slow and gradual corruption of all the good memories, until all that remained were the bad, and there was no reason to carry on?

Fortunately he had a reason. Those creatures, the things from elsewhere, had to be stopped. He had to stop them, because he had seen one, and without the training and discipline of the telepaths who had shared the experience, he had seen and experienced more. It had been driven back, back into the Apocalypse Box from which it had emerged, but it was still there, and he could feel it every time he looked at a living - or dying - being.

That was his goal, but there were things he had to do first.

"You're crazy," Talia said to him one day when he told her of his plan. They had spoken such words before, about one insane plan after another. The breaking into the hospital to rescue Delenn was yet another memory that had turned to ashes, for they had got there to find Delenn already dead and yet they had brought her out anyway, but this time the words were spoken without jest. No joking. No banter.

He supposed he was. No one could look upon that thing and remain sane. No one could look unprotected upon the infinity that was another universe and not see things differently.

He was a human being, and he was still alive. That was what he told himself when he doubted, as he did so very often.

"I have to do this," he had replied simply.

"At least take me with you."

"No."

"We should leave soon," said the Vindrizi. Dexter did not like to look at him. The body was human, but the force animating it was something entirely different. The human body was fallible and weak, and he could see the flaws running through it, tiny fault lines far beneath the surface. But that did not matter to the Vindrizi itself, a being with an existence of hundreds of millennia. It could wait and live on. It didn't matter to Dexter either. It didn't matter how long any lifespan was - all things died, and one day the Vindrizi would die too. And it would cease to exist with an even greater fear than that experienced by humans.

"I must do this," he had said again.

Neither of them understood. Or perhaps they had understood and he had not noticed. Regardless, he was convinced it was right that he do this. He was human, not a machine, not a walking corpse. He was human, and he would repay his debts.