Author's Note (updated): This chapter covers part of "War Without End, Part 1". Some dialogue is quoted from that episode; gapfiller scenes and portions thereof are my own. (I always wanted to see Delenn's reaction to getting that 900-year old letter from Valen…) I've made a slight change to fix a continuity glitch, regarding exactly when Delenn finds out for certain that Valen/Sinclair is her ancestor ("Atonement", Season Four). Thanks to an alert reader for catching my goof; I have altered one of Sinclair's lines in section four of the chapter to take this part of canon into account.
Part 30—Crossroads of Time
The loss of Kosh was a blow to us both, though John and I rarely spoke of it in the days that followed. "I wish I could call my dad," he told me once, during a quiet moment in the Zen garden. "I know he's fine, really, but—" He could say no more. I went to him and held him, giving and taking comfort in the same gesture. I felt sorely in need of it; I had lost a mentor and a friend, and sorrow for Kosh colored my meditations for some time after his passing. I have known death many times in my life, both before and since—yet with each one, the weight of absence is fresh and raw as an open wound.
Lyta was devastated. Away from the station at Kosh's behest when the Shadows attacked, she had felt him die. She returned to us dry-eyed and desolate, brittle with the effort of pretending nothing had happened. The Vorlon government asked us to keep Kosh's death hidden; they would send another to replace him, with no one the wiser. Lyta agreed to go along with the subterfuge, but it cost her to mourn Kosh only in private. She felt, she told me later, "like someone ripped out a piece of my heart and I'll never get it back."
I tried to comfort myself with the thought that at least Kosh had not died in vain. The Vorlon defense of Brakiri space had rallied the non-aligned worlds; every day, more of them flocked to our banner. I spent many hours working with John, arranging for additions to the ad hoc fleet defending the station and mediating mutual-defense talks between rivals turned allies. Exhaustion took its toll on us both, and we had little time for personal moments, but we took what we could get. Meanwhile, I waited with growing impatience for Sinclair's final report on the White Star fleet. The last thing I expected was Sinclair himself.
Several days after Kosh's death, my morning meditation was interrupted by an incoming-message chime from my Babcom unit. The sound was swiftly followed by a familiar golden glow and Draal's booming voice. "Profound apologies for interrupting, but I have found something you need to see. Go and look at what I sent you. You will scarcely believe it. I had a hard time believing it myself. But the Great Machine does not lie."
He was pacing, I discovered when I opened my eyes, and sufficiently perturbed to be unaware that his holographic self was passing back and forth through the low table by my sofa. When he saw he had my attention, he nodded toward the Babcom unit. "In there. Two records. Take a look."
I called up the records and watched them in growing astonishment. I knew, of course, about the mysterious disappearance of Babylon Four—Babylon Five's predecessor—six Earth years ago. The first of Draal's records showed the evacuation of Babylon Four after its brief and inexplicable reappearance a mere three years ago, in the region of nearby space known as Sector Fourteen. Sinclair and Garibaldi both had assisted in the evacuation before Babylon Four vanished again into a tachyon rift. The rift, smaller now, was still there, and Sector Fourteen had been off-limits to all ships ever since.
The second record set my heart to pounding. "The Great Machine recorded this six years ago, by human reckoning," Draal said softly. I nodded, barely taking in the words. All my attention was on the image of Babylon Four, three-quarters built, hanging in space. Two Shadow ships glided toward it, towing a pillar-shaped object with a glowing white heart. A fusion bomb. Then, from the bottom of the screen, laser fire lanced out. The glowing beams, purplish-white, struck the nearest Shadow vessel and broke it apart. Undeterred, its companions kept towing the bomb closer to the station. Again came laser fire, this time as the firing ship soared into view.
The White Star.
My voice was a breath of air. "Impossible…"
"Delenn." Draal's tone combined affection and irritation. "You are seeing it happen, just as the Great Machine saw it. It occurred. And you must make it occur again."
"Stop," I said absently to the Babcom unit, then turned toward him. "What do you mean?"
He frowned, clearly unsettled. "I did not seek this information. The Great Machine brought it to me. It does that sometimes, never without reason. As you and Sheridan command the White Star, I can only surmise that you, or he, or both of you, must set these events in motion." He nodded toward the frozen image of the White Star firing on the fusion bomb. "Soon, I would guess—while the Shadows are still recovering from the blow the Vorlons struck them."
"But… how…?"
He shook his head, still staring at the Babcom screen. "I wish I knew, child. I wish I knew."
My heart began to pound again, and I found myself wishing fiercely that Draal was here as more than a hologram. That he was rattled enough to call me child made me want to hold tight to something, or someone, and never let go.
ooOoo
The morning's shocks were not over, as I discovered within the hour when the Anla'shok courier arrived. Rather than Sinclair's report on the White Star fleet, she brought something else. A letter on ancient parchment, well preserved. With my name across the front. Handwritten, but not in Adronado or any Minbari language. In English.
A chill went through me at the sight of it. I had seen enough ancient documents throughout my life to know that the parchment predated by centuries any Minbari contact with humans. Letters of the English alphabet, spelling out my name, had no business being on anything this old. I fought back unease and managed to thank the courier—a young Minbari from Yedor, her scalp tattooed in the style of the Wanderer clans—and take the letter. "Nothing else from Entil'zha?"
She shook her head. "No, honored one. Only that. I was told it is very important."
We shared a cup of tea, after the custom of our people, and she went on her way. For a time after she left, I stared at the letter in silence. It lay on the table, innocuous, waiting.
I breathed in slowly, then picked up the letter and opened it.
Old friend, it said. I write this near the end of my life, to tell you of that life's beginning. You know me in one aspect of it, as Jeffrey Sinclair. Now I must tell you the rest. How I became Minbari not born of Minbari. How Sinclair ceased to be, and took the face and name of Valen. I tell you, here, because I cannot do this—could not have done this—without your help. Your friendship, your faith, your courage and your example enabled me to recognize and accept my destiny—to save your people in the distant past, so that both our races and countless others might be saved in the future…
The neat, graceful print blurred before my eyes. I sat down, holding the letter in shaking hands. Things I had seen from Sinclair on Minbar—small betrayals of expression and body language—came sharply to mind. The brief, hollow look on his face when I spoke of my youthful daydreams of meeting Valen. The vehemence of his agreement that being a legend was mainly muddling through. He had known, or suspected, even then—but could not tell me.
I could not read any more, though I knew I would have to eventually. The story the letter told was one I had to know, if I were to aid its author. Its author, I thought, and choked back a sound between a laugh and a sob. I could not name him even in my own mind. Not in this moment. The full truth of who he was—had been, would be—was too overwhelming to take in.
I rose and strode blindly across the room. Found myself halting at the spot where the Chrysalis had been a full two years before. I reached out, cupped the air. Could almost feel the hard, thin shape of the Triluminary under my fingertips. Remembered it glowing as we held it near Sinclair's unconscious body, aboard the Valen'tha at the Battle of the Line…
"Forgive us, dear friend," I whispered. "Forgive me."
ooOoo
When I finally brought myself to read the rest of the letter, it confirmed what I had feared since viewing Draal's recordings. I had recognized Babylon Four when it reappeared three years ago, though I said nothing about it at the time. As one of the Grey Council, I had access to ancient recordings from the last Shadow War—and unlike many of my colleagues, I had made a point of studying them. They showed the destruction by the Shadows of our principal starbase, vital for long-range operations against the enemy… and its replacement by a structure of alien design, brought by Valen and the two Vorlon guardians who accompanied him. Every Minbari schoolchild knew a version of that story—the Minbari-not-born-of-Minbari who brought us a miracle and saved us from darkness. Where the strange new starbase came from, no one outside the Grey Council ever knew—and even they had no inkling of how. I knew, now… and I also knew what it would cost.
I stood very still in the center of my sitting room, the letter in hand. My chest felt heavy and tight. Sinclair would be here soon; the letter made devastatingly clear how short on time we were. He would come, and we would set in motion events that had already happened, that must happen again or all was lost. And then he would be lost—to me, at least. Garibaldi came to mind then, and Susan, and I amended my thought: to us.
Seeking comfort, I turned toward the Babcom unit and drew breath to request a connection to John's office—then stopped. What would I tell him? How could I explain? Even with what I had seen, and knew, I could barely wrap my mind around the reality of our task. And Sinclair, his part in it, the thing that made me need comfort most of all… how in the name of all that lived was I to explain that?
I needed calm. I went to the quiet corner set aside for meditation, sank onto the cushion, set the letter on the low table next to the candle in its holder. And then I simply sat, hands empty in my lap, not even able to make myself light the wick.
"Lights off," I managed to say. Darkness drew in around me—not soothing, exactly, but apt. I didn't need calm after all, I discovered. I needed to mourn.
ooOoo
Lennier found me there, sitting silent in the darkness, something over an hour later. His arrival meant Sinclair was here, and it was time to go. It was hard to make myself get up and leave the room, the candle I had finally lit burning alone in the dark as tribute to the soul of my friend. But there was no choice, so I went.
Sinclair would be in the War Room shortly, Lennier told me as we headed down the corridor. He was taking a little extra time to walk the station, saying farewell in his own way. For a moment I regretted that he had not come to see me, but I thought I understood why. The tasks before him were daunting, especially considering the painful history between our peoples. History that was now in his past, but would become a future he dared not alter. To deal with that knowledge and also with me, without the imperative of our mission to steady him, might shake his resolve. And that he would not risk.
Lennier left me halfway to the War Room, turning off to see to preparations aboard the White Star. I went on and found John and Marcus, perusing maps and discussing how best to exploit the recent lull in Shadow attacks. Sinclair had not yet arrived. The sneaking relief I felt was a thin layer over profound discomfort. This would be the first time I had seen Sinclair since discovering who he was, and I did not know how I would react. As for the others, there was so much to explain, most of which would sound like lunatic fever-dreams. Especially to John, who always wanted reasons and explanations before taking action. I could not give them here and now in any way that made sense, and we had little time in any case. He would simply have to trust me.
All this ran through my mind in the few seconds it took to walk through the doorway. John's face lit up when he saw me, but there was no time for anything personal just now. They needed to come with me to the White Star, I told them. At once. John, Marcus, Ivanova, "and one other." I still could not name him—ridiculous, but I couldn't help it.
"Who?" John asked, just as the door on the upper level swung open. Sinclair stepped through it. My breath caught at the sight of him. His gaze swept over us, lingered on me. I saw compassion in his eyes, and for a moment I wanted to cry like a child. Then the moment passed, and he was coming down the stairs to the main floor where we stood. His gait was easy, his posture relaxed, and he wore the same gentle smile I had last seen on my visit to Minbar a few months ago. "Looks like I got here just in time."
John and Marcus went to greet him, and I took a few seconds to compose myself. Then, as John turned back toward me and asked how I knew Sinclair would be here, a transmission from Garibaldi captured all our attention. He was outside the station in a Starfury, about two hours away from Sector Fourteen, attempting a long-range scan. "The temporal rift is twice as big as it was before," he said, over occasional bursts of static.
John frowned at the vidscreen, which showed a suited-up Garibaldi in the cockpit. "Any idea what's responsible?"
"Yeah. Yeah, it's being caused by a powerful tachyon field being transmitted right into the center of the rift. And Captain… it's coming from Epsilon Three."
Draal. We were shorter on time than I had thought.
John's scowl deepened. "Why in… Never mind. Keep monitoring it, and keep checking in. And don't get too close."
"No worries, Captain." Garibaldi signed off. Behind John, I saw Sinclair's eyes close briefly and his shoulders sag. In relief, or sadness, or both. I noted he had said nothing to Garibaldi, and had kept well out of view of the vidscreen.
No time for the personal. I felt a pang of sympathy for him, and took refuge in the need to get moving. "We must go to the White Star. Commander Ivanova can meet us at the shuttle bay."
"Does this have something to do with the tachyon field?" John said.
"Yes. I will explain when we get there."
"But—" He came toward me, the pent-up energy of a hundred questions in his stride. "Delenn, if the temporal rift is being affected by transmissions coming from the planet below us… isn't that where we should be going, instead of hooking up with the White Star?"
He was thinking of the Great Machine, likely believing some malfunction was responsible. Or, if not, that Draal could explain the tachyon phenomenon. That was like him, to assume something relatively logical. How little he dreamed of the illogic awaiting us. "It will take too much time. We must leave for Sector Fourteen. Now."
He was looking exasperated and trying not to—a look I knew well from other occasions when he wanted answers he could not yet have. "Why? Why right now?"
I was beginning to feel exasperated myself. Much as I had come to admire humans, just now Minbari obedience would have been infinitely preferable. "Because this is the time we are supposed to leave."
"That's circular reasoning—"
"Once we arrive at the White Star, I will explain everything." No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I regretted the impatience that drove them. I moved toward him, speaking more gently. "John… I have rarely asked for anything. Now I am asking." I let my eyes say the rest: Trust me.
He read my unspoken message and slowly nodded. A quick call to Ivanova on his link, telling her to meet us in Shuttle Bay Two, and we were finally on our way.
John's puzzlement was a near-tangible thing, so clear in his face that I could not bring myself to walk next to him as I normally would have done. The proof I needed of the incredible truth was aboard the White Star now; I would tell him, and the others, everything then.
As we moved down the corridor, Sinclair fell into step beside me. "Strange, isn't it?" he said with a wry smile.
I matched his lightness, though I was far from feeling it. "What is?"
"Walking around with a legend. Or at least a fellow who's going to be one."
Put that way, I saw the oddity of it. It was almost funny, in a bizarre way. I couldn't help smiling, then abruptly felt tears pricking and blinked them back. From the corner of my eye I could see his face, wise and kind and all too knowing.
My stammered apology took me by surprise. "I am so sorry. For everything. If we had known—"
His fingers brushed my arm. "The past is past, Delenn. What matters now is securing the future."
ooOoo
"So what's this all about?" Susan said as she piloted our shuttle out of the bay. Sinclair, Marcus and John were in the second shuttle, following. "Are we taking on the bad guys again?"
"You could say that." I kept my gaze on the passing stars as we drew near the jump gate. I did not want to speak of what we had to do—specifically, of what Sinclair had to do. Of all the things about this impossible escapade, that was the most impossible of all.
"Quite a surprise, Jeff coming back," she said. I stole a glance at her; she was smiling, happy at the prospect of spending time with her old friend and commander even under mysterious circumstances. "After he went to Minbar as ambassador, I sometimes wondered if we'd ever see him again. Of course, now I know he was busy beefing up the Rangers…"
She trailed off. I was staring back out at the stars, and it took me some seconds to realize she had stopped speaking. In my mind, I was still hearing her say, I wondered if we'd ever see him again. Words so casually spoken, yet they struck so close to home.
She turned quieter, more serious. "What's going on, Delenn? I can tell you don't want to talk about it, and you look more nerved-up than a rookie pilot in her first combat drill. When you get nervous enough to show it, I worry."
Sometimes, she could be too perceptive. "I would rather not say yet," I told her. "Some of what you will need to see is aboard the White Star; I would rather wait until we get there, and brief everyone at once."
"Fair enough." She activated the jump sequence, and the gate flared to life around us. We made the brief trip through hyperspace in silence. Then, as the gate disgorged us a little way from the White Star: "So we're saving the universe again, huh? With maybe a little jaunt to Sector Fourteen?"
I stared at her. She grinned. "Repeat after me. Ivanova knows everything. If Ivanova doesn't know about it, it isn't happening. Ivanova is God." Then she sobered. "Actually, I have inside information. Several hours ago, C&C picked up a transmission coming from Sector Fourteen. It was me. In a Babylon Five that was under siege and coming apart. A mayday call—I was panicked, practically screaming. C&C'd been shot to hell—girders down, wires sparking, fires and smoke. Dead bodies everywhere." She shuddered. "'They're breaking through, they're killing us.' I kept saying that. Didn't say who they were, but I'm assuming the Shadows. They blew us to kingdom come." She turned the shuttle slightly, aiming to dock with the White Star. When she spoke again, I heard anxiety beneath her deliberately casual tone. "So I'm hoping that wasn't the future—or if it was, that it's a future we can change. I'm guessing this little trip has something to do with it?"
"Yes." I could manage no more than that word. The vision she had conjured up was chilling—and all too certain to become reality if we failed in our mission. We won't fail, I told myself. We have done this once already. We need only do it again…
The White Star loomed in the shuttle viewport. Susan tossed a glance my way as she maneuvered closer. "Piece of cake," she said, with a deadpan expression and a gleam in her eyes.
For no good reason, the weight in my chest lightened. I felt myself smiling as I caught her gaze. "Susan Ivanova… have I ever told you how honored and proud I am to call you my friend?"
"Likewise," she said softly. The shuttle docked and she continued, in a more conversational tone: "Garibaldi's going to be royally ticked off. The cloak-and-dagger escapade to end all cloak-and-dagger escapades, and he's missing it. We're going to have some 'splaining to do when we get back, Lucy."
The reference made me laugh in spite of myself, conjuring as it did the memory of a "girls' night" some months back, when Susan showed me how to curl my hair and we sat up afterward watching episodes of old Earth video shows. I hadn't understood most of the humor in them, but the companionship was priceless. How much I had come to value her, and all of them… and how little I would have expected any of this, even just a few years ago.
"We are coming back, aren't we?" Susan said as she powered down the shuttle's engines.
I laid a hand on hers. "Yes." Sheer bravado, but I found myself believing it. We would come back, all of us, if I had anything to say about it.
All of us but one.
