PART 2 - Segue
by V. Wildeber, 30 March 2000
A brace of ground troops fell in behind Neroon as he and the physician disembarked the transport. The StarRider glanced over at Marak, then strode off the bay deck. Neroon disliked bodyguards, and never used them on Ingata. He never felt a need among his own crew. Here, he would have no choice -- Shakiri, like the rest of the WindSwords, was always accompanied by a cloud of enlisted bodyguards. And now Neroon, as Shakiri's Alyt, would have a contingent of his own -- supposedly for his protection. But they were WindSwords, and Neroon doubted very much they answered to anyone but Shakiri.
The guards peeled off as Neroon and Marak entered the warrior caste leader's office.
"Neroon! You wasted no time getting here," remarked Shakiri, drily. Ignoring their salutes, he rose and walked past the two to the sideboard, where he poured himself a cup of tea. He returned to his seat, cup in hand, and sat, heavily.
A quick glance around, and Neroon realized that Shakiri had no intention of making them comfortable -- there was but one chair in the room, one glass by the water pitcher, and one cup for tea. Smiling carefully, Neroon spread his arms and stepped forward, his voice silken. "When I learned of the honor you had bestowed upon me, I reported to you with all possible speed. I would not dream of making the Shai Alyt wait."
Shakiri showed his teeth in an approximation of a smile. "No, you are far too loyal for that." He examined his cup with feigned interest. "So, tell me, Neroon. Who is Ingata's new Shai Alyt? I must know to whom I should extend my congratulations."
"Why, to my clan-brother, Durell, of course." Neroon forced a conspiratorial wink and dropped his voice. "Ingata has been commanded by StarRiders for over 40 years. I wanted to keep it in the family."
At that, Shakiri erupted into a staccato burst of laughter. "Nepotism is alive and well, I see! Very well, I can't blame you for that."
The tall WindSword selected a crystal, and seated it in the dataport. Above the desk sprang to life a tactical display, shimmering with red and blue icons. "Behold our fleets -- the mighty hand of the Minbari. Once our warcruisers are assembled, we will advance upon Minbar in a single wave, and crush the religious caste within a week." He clenched his fist to illustrate the point. "Then, the fit will rule Minbar -- from a warrior council."
Neroon caught his breath. This was the plan of a madman. Keeping his voice carefully modulated, he responded, "It is a remarkable plan, Shai Alyt. But why should we content ourselves only with the meager offerings of the religious caste? Minbar has over a hundred outposts and colonies -- we would be poorly served to overlook them."
This caught Shakiri's attention. Eyes glittering, he nodded for Neroon to continue.
The StarRider strode over to the desk and swept his hand expansively through the holographic display. "And who is to say that the religious caste would not attempt to bring in outside interference? It is clear that the noble traditions of our kind hold no importance to Delenn." He moved closer to Shakiri and dropped his voice to force the other man to lean closer to listen. "But if some of our forces were to secure the periphery against alien trespass, others could take control of the outposts and colonies."
Shakiri frowned slightly. "It has merit, but does not address the all the issues..."
Neroon cut in quickly. "A third force could establish martial law on Minbar, while the rest of the warcruisers take care of the religious caste fleets. Think of it, Shakiri -- we would bring them to their knees without losing a single resource!"
A wolfish smile spread across Shakiri's craggy features. He leaned back in his chair, staring through the shimmering display at his new Chief of Staff. "Branmer was quite proud of your tactical abilities. You do not disappoint me, Neroon."
The StarRider forced a smile and a small bow. "As Branmer would say, 'Times like these require creative thinking.'" He walked back around to the far side of the desk, carefully playing out his plan. "Clearly the WindSwords and StarRiders are the strongest clans. They should rightfully draw the most difficult missions."
He paused and mused, "Since Delenn's assignment as ambassador to Babylon 5, she has made contacts with all the major races." He inflected his voice with bravado. "The StarRiders will take the perimeter, Shai Alyt. I can guarantee you that no alien vessel will cross into Minbari space."
Before Shakiri could speak, Neroon smoothly continued: "With the StarRiders on the perimeter, the rest of our caste can be assured of complete freedom of movement. I recommend the NightWalkers for the outpost and colony mission, and the MoonShields to take Minbar. With the FireWings in direct support, the WindSwords should cut through the religious caste fleets like a hot knife through a candle."
"FireWings in support?" Shakiri fairly exploded from his chair. "The WindSwords need no direct support, Neroon. And we have no need of anyone else to assure our freedom of movement!" He advanced upon Neroon, looming over him with a snarl. "The WindSwords will take the perimeter. The StarRiders, " he paused, raising his voice for emphasis, "with the assistance of the FireWings, should be able to take care of a fleet of priests!"
For the first time, Shakiri seemed to notice Marak, standing in the corner. "And who is this?"
"He is Marak, my personal physician."
"Oh? I didn't realize you were ill," remarked Shakiri, drily. He dismissed them both with a wave of his hand. "My aide will show you to your quarters. The others are on their way."
* * * * * * *
As the last warrior arrived on Shakiri's flagship, the atmosphere in the briefing room grew charged with tension. The eight senior warcruiser commanders jostled for position at the map. Neroon greeted them each by name, subtly probing to learn their attitudes and intentions.
The warriors fell silent as Shai Alyt Shakiri entered the room. He looked around and allowed himself a smug smile. "The Nine and the One -- a War Council, the way Valen meant it to be!" Suddenly, Shakiri drew his denn'bok and expanded it in a single, graceful move. Now that all eyes were locked on him, he began his carefully-rehearsed speech. Privately, some may have doubted Shakiri's strength of character, but none could argue with his raw charisma. His words gripped each warrior, stirring their hearts at the most primal levels.
By the time the clans had received their assignments, all tension had evaporated from the room, replaced instead by heady anticipation as they prepared to sign the orders.
Grandly, Shakiri took his seat and beckoned to one of his aides, who came forward with a small, ornate coffer. The Shai Alyt drew forth an antique stylus of exquisite design. He held it up for the frank admiration of his warleaders. "As we embark on a historic mission to return Minbar to its former state of glory, it is only appropriate that we sign with a suitably historic pen." He laughed at his own joke. Most of the commanders followed.
Shakiri continued as he signed the orders, "This stylus has been in my family since before the time of Valen." He handed the instrument to the commander nearest him, who examined it, then carefully passed it on. "As the story goes, my ancestor was conducting a business matter with a priest. When the time came for him to sign the papers, he discovered he had no pen. Naturally, he went to use the priest's -- but the old fool didn't want to give it up." Several of the warriors snickered.
By this time, the stylus had come around the table to a MoonShield. "How much did he have to pay for it?" she asked.
"Pay?" Shakiri snorted. "He killed him there on the spot for his audacity." Shakiri leaned forward, grinning. "But that's not the humor of it -- it turns out the thing was out of ink!" The Shai Alyt threw back his head and roared with laughter, and the WindSwords joined with him. The MoonShield quickly pushed the instrument back across the table to Shakiri. Neroon noticed she did not smile.
The spell of Shakiri's charm was broken. Only a madman treated death with frivolity.
Neroon seized the opportunity. He beamed with forced gusto and clapped the nearest warrior on the back. "The religious caste and their prophecies -- you kill them and they all turn into martyrs. Every day will become a religious holiday, and there'll be no work done!"
As if on cue, a FireWing's voice rang out: "Those priests say that humility improves the soul. If anyone's souls need improving, it's the religious caste -- so let them live with the humiliation of their defeat!" And across the room, the MoonShields nodded.
Neroon had subtly but effectively split the council. The StarRiders and FireWings stood firmly behind him, and would not kill. It appeared the MoonShields would restrain themselves, also -- at least for now. However, he still did not know where the NightWalkers stood.
* * * * * * *
On Ingata's bridge, an alarm sounded.
"Three Sharlin-class cruisers approaching with weapons hot, Shai Alyt. Their markings are religious caste."
Durell gestured, and the viewscreen shimmered into place. Three cruisers appeared on the screen, in what appeared to be an attack formation.
The StarRider drummed his fingers briefly on the arm of his chair, then shook his head in distaste. "And so it begins..." Solemnly, he hailed the vessels. "This is Shai Alyt Durell of the warcruiser Ingata. Power down your weapons. Your ships are now under my control, and are now trophies of Ingata. As such, no warcruiser will disturb you. Do not engage any warrior caste vessels, and you will not be harmed."
The silence stretched out uncomfortably as the crew of the Ingata awaited the religious caste response. The tac ops officer broke the stillness with a yelp of disbelief. "In Valen's name, they're launching fighters!"
Durell sprang from his seat and, in two quick strides, was leaning over the sensor panel. It bloomed with activity. "Damn!" He slammed his fist into the console. "Launch fighters." The broad-shouldered StarRider moved back to his seat and flipped the comm switch roughly. "Do not engage religious caste fighters unless fired upon. If you must engage, fire only to disable their weapons, or as a last resort, their engines. We will not be provoked into shedding Minbari blood!"
Ingata's fighters swarmed forth like bees and hung waiting in a protective cloud.
"Religious caste cruisers! This is Shai Alyt Durell of the warcruiser Ingata. Power down." His voice guttered out into a low growl as he paced the deck.
At the fire control station, Shukran calmly clicked through the targeting array displays, bringing each gunnery team on line.
Without breaking formation, the religious caste fighters swept toward Ingata, guns blazing. The warriors peeled off, avoiding fire, and spun back around behind the priests. Left targetless, the religious caste fighters regrouped and clumsily came around to face their foes, never quite attaining weapons lock. Time and again they circled in a deadly dance, the warriors evading their fire and leading them further away from Ingata.
Obviously frustrated at the situation, the starboard cruiser fired. Smoothly, Ingata's navigator adjusted pitch to deflect the blow. The shields barely rippled under the impact.
"Fire." Durell's voice was low and soft, almost dispassionate. The Ingata's main gun sounded, a thin, precise shot to the starboard vessel's primary targeting dish. The dish crumpled and vanished, and the religious caste cruiser's shots began to arc wildly, coming dangerously close to its own fighters.
"Shai Alyt Durell -- they're hailing us."
Durell, his broad face dark with anger, stood to face the viewscreen. The screen rippled once, and the religious caste fleet commander appeared, jaw set in stubborn defiance.
"I am Fleet Captain Lennan. You are outnumbered and outgunned. Surrender your vessel to us or face immediate destruction."
Durell walked slowly toward the screen, his voice low and dangerous. "Lennan, you do not know what you are doing. I'll give you this last chance. Power down your weapons or I shall be forced to disable your cruisers."
From the sensor station, a voice rang out. "Shai Alyt Durell, they've locked on."
Lennan smirked, then gestured broadly, and his cruisers opened fire.
Durell grasped the railing as the navigator pulled the Ingata into a sharp bank. Ingata's counter-fire batteries opened up, unleashing a furious barrage. Cursing under his breath, Durell shot a glance over his shoulder at Shukran. "It's time, Gunner. Take down the one to port."
Her fingers playing over the controls with delicate precision, the FireWing launched coordinated salvos from all guns. The religious caste cruiser maintained its course, its crew frozen in unprepared terror at the ferocity of the warcruiser's retaliation. As the blast from multiple impacts faded, the damage showed clearly -- its twin ventral fins were sheared of all weaponry. With cold accuracy, Shukran fired again, severing the ship's main drive. Scorchmarks scarred the cruiser's bluish skin as unidentifiable bits of debris swirled slowly in random circles. Listing grotesquely, it hung unmaneuverable and almost completely helpless.
The warrior fighter pilots came swooping back toward the Ingata, having left the religious caste fighters toothless. They hung silent, poised and waiting Durell's next orders.
"Fleet Captain Lennan!" Durell's roar was deafening. "Power down your ships or I shall be forced to take them apart piece by piece."
The religious caste fleet commander recoiled. He nervously licked his lips, then insisted, "The warriors have declared war on the religious caste. I cannot allow you to continue. You will surrender, or you will die."
"You fool! Do you have a death wish? Do not toy with us." Durell's voice rang out in Neroon's words. "We fight because we value life. But you -- you play at war like it was a game." His voice dropped to a venomous growl. "Your little religious caste fleets are strong enough to stand against our enemies, Lennan -- but you are no match for the warrior caste."
Abruptly, Durell seized a headset from the nearest console. He tossed it to Shukran. "Show them what you see, Shukran."
He wheeled back to the viewscreen. "Behold, Fleet Captain Lennan, through the eyes of a warrior gunner!"
Shukran pulled on the headset and adjusted the ocular, then tapped a control on her console. The left half of the viewscreen shimmered out of focus. She gave the headset a firm thump and the viewscreen bloomed into clarity again -- this time with a targeting grid superimposed in muted red, rows of constantly shifting numbers flickering across the base. The edges of the screen faded into cobalt, reflecting off the FireWing's iris and refracting into a thousand tiny points.
Shukran's hands glided across the controls and the outline of Lennan's flagship appeared. Across the outline's flank and down its dorsal fin, green and gold lights flared -- targeted coordinates. She shifted her gaze slightly, and Lennan gasped as he saw the outlines of all three cruisers painted with the gruesome shades of the gunner's sights.
Durell spoke quietly but firmly. "You have two minutes to evacuate the areas indicated in green, or we will not be responsible for any deaths that might occur from collateral damage. In three minutes we will destroy the areas marked in gold. I suggest you begin your evacuations now."
Visibly shaken, Lennan repeated his hollow demand in a high, quavering voice. "You must surrender. You are outnumbered and outgunned..." The corner of his mouth twitched rapidly, and his voice faded away. He watched in undisguised horror the unblinking display from Shukran's ocular, while the corner of the viewscreen showed the clock ticking relentlessly down.
Finally, he broke.
"Stop!" The fleet captain turned and screamed out a shrill order to his crew. Simultaneously, the cruisers powered down their remaining weapons, leaving their gunports open in a fragile gesture of respect.
Salvaging what was left of his dignity, Fleet Captain Lennan made his surrender, bowing low over steepled hands. He forced out his words with reluctance. "We will not continue to fight, Shai Alyt Durell. My fleet is your... trophy."
Durell crossed his arms over his broad chest and nodded solemnly in approval. "You show wisdom, Lennan -- there is hope for you. I claim your fleet as my own. You will report to the nearest maintenance facility for repairs to your ships, where you will wait out the rest of the war in safety." He paused and looked toward Shukran, inclining his head slightly to her.
She saluted crisply, then reached up and flipped the ocular away from her eye; and the targeting grid on the viewscreen vanished.
* * * * * * *
Back on the WindSword flagship, the tension continued to rise. Neroon tugged on his new rank cord with its heavy, irksome fringe as he paced the room, reading the battle reports with growing anger. Finally, he threw the folder down in disgust.
"We have become fools, Marak -- childish, posturing fools." He gave a broad sweep with his hand. "Look about this ship. What do you see? Bodyguards, rank cords, battle flags... who is our caste trying to impress? Each other?"
Marak walked over to the door and checked the seal. It would do no good to have the bodyguards listening in.
"Perhaps we are, Alyt Neroon. The warrior caste has not fought a battle in over 13 years; but some from the religious caste are fresh from their victory over the Shadows."
Sneering, Neroon intoned, "*Their* victory? They were part of an interstellar alliance, lead by a human, of all things. And if it weren't for the Anla'Shok's Whitestar warships, the entire lot of them would be dead as we speak." He stopped pacing and turned to face Marak. "Have you heard back from F'hursna Sech Durhan?"
"Yes. I gave him your directive to keep the Anla'shok out of this war. Durhan assured me that neither the Rangers nor their Whitestars would interfere. He said that Delenn had already ordered them to stay out of the way."
Neroon looked at him in surprise. "The Whitestars were her only chance of defeating our warcruisers. She has to know that."
"Perhaps she believes the religious caste is equal to the warrior caste, now that her priests have been blooded."
The tall StarRider shook his head. "No -- she is not that naive. Deluded, yes. Fanatical, perhaps. But not naive. She must have realized that our warcruisers are not firing to kill. She is hoping this will all die down without further bloodshed."
He indicated the sheaf of reports. "But her fleet commanders are spoiling for a fight. You're right, Marak -- they're full of themselves and their part in the Shadow War. It's just a matter of time before someone else gets killed."
Marek grunted, then stood. "Time for my rounds." He walked over to Neroon and poked him in the chest. "As your personal physician, I need to warn you about your blood pressure. It's gone up considerably since we've gotten here."
All he got in response was a glare.
"You're not getting enough sleep and you're not eating right. Keep this up and you *will* need me as a doctor." With that, Marek spun neatly on his heel and left.
Neroon snarled and pitched the files into the reclamation port. His time on the Grey Council had shown him the ugly side of power and its siren call. Now, with civil war ripping his world apart, it seemed as though the best qualities of the Minbari people had died with Branmer.
Branmer -- former Shai Alyt of the warrior caste, the greatest Minbari warleader that ever lived, Neroon's former commander, mentor, and best friend. Now, more than ever, Neroon missed Branmer's wisdom and dry humor.
And he especially missed Shukran. He smiled at the irony of it: that in the middle of a civil war, the two people he missed the most were half religious caste.
* * * * * * *
It was only a matter of time before it happened. A couple of NightWalker scouts bumbled into a religious caste fleet. The cruisers fired on the scouts, destroying them on the spot -- but not before one of them managed to get out a distress call. The religious caste Fleet Captain immediately opened a jump point and escaped the area before the NightWalker warcruiser showed up to avenge its dead. But Death stood watch on the perimeter between Minbari space and the universe, in the form of the WindSword fleet. On Shakiri's order, the WindSwords rolled back in from their posts, destroying any religious caste vessel or outpost they came across. And together, the WindSwords and the NightWalkers began to close in on Minbar. Within days, fighting broke out in the capital.
Neroon was completely powerless to stop it -- it was a world gone mad. The WindSwords and NightWalkers were out of control, in a blood frenzy; and the other three castes were becoming harder and harder to rein in. He feared that Shakiri had completely lost his grip on reality.
So when an encrypted message arrived from Delenn, he accepted it. It was brief, merely an invitation to meet. If she wanted to get his attention, she certainly had succeeded -- the mystery of it alone was alluring, not to mention the fact it might lead to an early end of the war. A few hours later, Neroon and a squad of bodyguards were enroute to her location. His official mission: to spy out the religious caste's counterattack plans.
* * * * * * *
Ahead of them, the religious caste cruiser Takari waited, alone in the vast darkness of space, all weapons trained on the warrior transport. Neroon wasn't able to pick up any other ships on the scanners. Delenn was taking a big chance -- the religious caste was cautious above all, and normally patrolled in 3-cruiser fleets. He ordered his sergeant to signal the Takari and ready the men, then casually strolled to the sleeping compartment. Marek joined him moments later.
"I want you to remain with the transport."
"Neroon, no!" Marek's whisper was far too loud. Both men looked around, but saw no one. "I can't let you go there alone."
"Oh, I won't be alone -- I'll have a half-dozen of the WindSwords' finest," Neroon drawled. He looked out the porthole toward the massive cruiser. "I don't trust them."
"The religious caste or your bodyguard?"
"Yes. Take the transport out of firing range and wait for my signal." He clapped the doctor on the shoulder, then strode back out onto deck.
* * * * * * *
The tension was palpable as Neroon and his men boarded the Takari. Every step they took was shadowed by a gaggle of saffron-clad priests, scrambling to remain just a few steps ahead of them or just out of sight behind them. It was almost too easy to play with them -- Neroon varied the speed of his march every now and then, just to see the priests stumble over each other in their haste to recover.
By the time he got to the main corridor, Neroon had tired of his game. He chose the starboard corridor and simply halted. His men lined up shoulder to shoulder behind him, completely blocking the corridor from the religious caste. It irked Neroon to do this -- he needed no protection -- but he could ill afford to have a hot-tempered priest try anything foolish and provoke further problems. And so they stood, and waited for Delenn.
Across from the warriors, the religious castemembers drew courage from their numbers, flittering and whispering like ruffled birds. By the time Delenn arrived, the mob of priests on the other side of the corridor had tripled. Neroon fought to hide a smile as he watched Delenn carve through the priests' ranks through sheer force of will. At her request, he followed her to her quarters.
The Takari was far more luxurious than any warcruiser. Delenn's quarters were spacious and well-appointed -- but a ridiculously extravagant use of space, in a warrior's eyes. Neroon stopped at the entrance, taking in his surroundings with a quick glance, then strode past Delenn to the center of the room.
"All right, Delenn, what is it?"
* * * * * * *
Later that evening, Neroon stood on the observation deck, deep in thought. Above him, Minbar glowed like a blue jewel, one moon visible, the other dark. Delenn had sought his help. She had given him her trust. What was it she had said? Ah, yes -- she had questioned his judgement, his wisdom, and his temperament, but never his loyalty. Loyalty. To Minbar. To his people, dying there on that distant blue planet. A loyalty that transcended family, clan, and caste.
She shared that loyalty with him. Gracious, yet strong, she had chosen to overlook their past enmity and greet him as an ally. He and Delenn were not yet friends -- but they were no longer enemies. She had the courage to risk alienation by her entire caste in order to end this war. He respected that.
Odd, that someone from the religious caste could come up with as daring a plan as this to end the war. And odder still that she would accept responsibility for the deaths that must occur before her plan could succeed. But only drastic measures would put out the fire that raged through Minbari souls. Reason alone could not stop it.
A light footstep sounded near him. He turned to see the sergeant of his guard. It was time to begin the show.
"Ah, good. There you are. We're almost home. Just a little longer and we'll see if Delenn knows what she's doing."
The sergeant said nothing, but his eyes glittered with interest.
"End!" The display melted into black above them. Neroon turned his back to the WindSword. "Bring her to me! I have questions which require answers."
Behind him, a pike extended with a sharp click. Neroon wheeled about in surprise, catching the blow to the side of his head -- his reflexes had saved his life. Unconscious, he slumped to the deck.
When he came to, he saw that the rest of his bodyguard had subdued their sergeant. To their credit, they looked shocked by the man's actions. Neroon rolled to one knee and prepared to stand, but was stopped by the firm hand of a medic. He powered himself upright a little too quickly, and felt the room spin; but he was not about to be fussed over by a bunch of solicitous priests. Angrily shaking off their assistance, he stalked out of the observation deck, pausing only long enough to meet the eyes of his attacker. "I am fine -- it was a glancing blow."
* * * * * * *
Marek met him in the infirmary, and scanned him with a professional eye. "You're lucky, Neroon. If you hadn't turned when you did, he'd have shattered your skull."
The tall StarRider growled, "I want you to take that damn bodyguard back to the transport -- every one of them. Get them off this ship and get them out of here."
Outside the examination room, the warrior standing guard shifted slightly.
Blandly, the doctor continued to work on Neroon's injury. "And just how will you be getting back?"
"Just do what I say. I still have work to do -- and I can't afford to have those idiots getting in the way."
Just then a tumult rose outside. Neroon pushed Marek aside so he could see, as a frantic group of priests came rushing into the infirmary, bearing a body. Neroon craned his neck, but couldn't quite make out the face. Then, among the swirl of saffron robes, he saw a flash of orange.
"It's Lennier. Go see what you can do for him, Marek."
Marek hesitated, and Neroon waved him off. "I'll be fine -- go." He shut his eyes. "Brief me when you know his status."
As soon as the doctor had left the room, Neroon rolled off the exam table and headed toward the door. The bodyguard started to fall in behind him, but froze under Neroon's cold glare. "Do you know anything about this?"
The WindSword shook his head vigorously. "No, Alyt Neroon. It wasn't one of us."
"Stay here," Neroon growled. He turned and strode down the corridor. Mentally, he accounted for his bodyguards -- one was back at the infirmary, two were in the holding cells guarding their sergeant, one had replaced Marek on the transport. That left one...