PART 3 - Segue
by V. Wildeber, 30 March 2000
His fear was unfounded -- Delenn had not been harmed. As a matter of fact, she looked surprised to see him appear at her door. Her fellow castemembers had neglected to tell her of her attaché's injury.
The slender woman paced the length of the room, stopping in front of a small altar. "The religious caste and the warrior caste have not always been... forthcoming with one another." She brushed indiscernible dust from a candleholder. "Withholding certain... information... has become habit."
Neroon did not fail to catch the irony in her words. He waited in silence, the throbbing in his head only now beginning to subside.
"As you know, a priest and an acolyte were killed in the altercation on the planet. The official report was that the priest had no remaining family -- that he was the last of his House. But it appears that is not quite the case." Delenn's voice grew softer as she turned to look at the warrior. "He has been dead for almost a month, but his family does not yet know it."
A sick feeling of dread began to rise in the pit of Neroon's stomach.
Delenn turned to face him. "Lennier did some research and discovered he was a widower, with one child, raised by tradition in the caste of her mother -- as a warrior. I'm sorry, Neroon. She should have been told."
The news fell like a stone. "This priest -- was he Rika of the House of Kell?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
Slowly, the StarRider walked across the room to the altar. It helped to stare into the candle's flame. He concentrated on the light until he was sure his voice wouldn't crack. "There are not many half-castes among us. His daughter is the Alyt of the Ingata. I will inform her."
He heard the woman intake her breath sharply; then Delenn discretely left him to his thoughts. After a few moments, Neroon turned to face her, inclining his head in a slight bow. She bowed to him over steepled hands in return.
"Good evening, Delenn. Thank you for letting me know." He stopped partway out the door. "Tensions are running rather high. It might be best if you stay here."
She protested, and he raised his hand to stop her. "There is too great a risk. I will look in on Lennier."
* * * * * * *
It had all gone as planned. Once Marek had finished with Lennier, he had taken the bodyguard back onboard the transport. The Takari's crew was only too glad to see them off. Neroon had remained as a guest, though not a welcome one.
And in the wee hours of the night, when only a skeleton crew stood shift, Neroon slipped into the bay, overpowered the crewman on duty, and stole a flyer. It was far too easy.
Expertly, his fingers played across the console, entering the agreed-upon frequency, and setting the modulation time. For exactly 5 seconds, he would be on an encrypted warrior caste channel the religious caste already knew. Then, the frequency would shift to a secure channel. The religious caste would intercept exactly what Delenn and Neroon intended them to hear.
He did not pretend to know the future -- but he knew that the Minbari could not survive as a divided people. As unlikely a team as they were, what he and Delenn were doing was right.
* Now if only I can keep our own people from killing us ... *
Up ahead was the jumpgate -- his only chance for survival once he started his message. He smiled grimly at the challenge, then hit the switch.
"Message from Alyt Neroon to Shakiri, Shai Alyt of the warrior caste. The mission has been successful. I have access to their plans to counterattack our forces in the capital city. They can be stopped, and stopped easily."
He reached down and activated the signal to open the jumpgate. "It is as you said, Shakiri -- they do not have the stomach for a prolonged conflict. Tell our ships to stand by. Victory will be ours within the week." The jumpgate flared, and his flyer shot safely through to hyperspace.
Once in hyperspace, it would be more difficult for any of the religious caste to find him. But if they did, his only chance was in outrunning or outsmarting them -- this civilian-model flyer certainly couldn't outgun anything.
He keyed the console again, this time entering one of Ingata's internal freqs. A familiar face greeted him.
"Neroon!" The FireWing's smile quickly faded to a look of concern. "You've been hurt."
"I'm fine." He smiled. "There was a... misunderstanding. But it is of no consequence." Gently, he reached out to touch her face on the screen. She placed her hand on her own display screen, joining their fingertips against the glass.
"I'm afraid I have bad news, Shukran."
A chirp sounded. Neroon turned and saw two blips had appeared on the scanner. "Scouts!" Immediately, he cut power.
The scouts separated, criss-crossing the area in long, looping sweeps. They'd obviously lost him on their sensors, but knew he wasn't far.
Silent, floating dead in space, the flyer continued to drift in the gravitational eddies. He would have to fire his thrusters before long or he'd drift too far off the hyperspace beacon and risk becoming irrecovably lost. Neroon's head injury itched maddeningly, but he didn't move. The scouts, by standard procedure, would have their scanners tuned for the slightest noise -- the clink of a seatbelt, the rasp of a cough, or especially the telltale burst of a thruster making tiny adjustments to keep a vessel on the beacon.
The beacon's transmission grew fainter. At last, when it was about to fade entirely from his screen, Neroon gunned the engines and made a run for it. He was counting on the sudden burst of input to temporarily overload the scouts' sensors and give him the fraction of an advantage. The flyer came screaming out of hiding, bucking and spinning in a way no civilian craft was ever meant to fly. He cut an erratic course toward the nearest jumpgate, the scouts homing in behind him.
"Alyt Neroon onboard Takari Flyer 934: power down your vessel! You are under our jurisdiction."
Neroon did not deign to answer. As he expected, the scout's next attempt to communicate wasn't verbal. He spun the flyer into a tight roll, barely evading a shot to his port side. Warning lights flashed on the console -- the hull wasn't designed to take this kind of stress. He pulled the flyer down hard into a dead drop, then fished around under the seat until he found a breather. Twenty minutes of oxygen in the canister, plus whatever air remained in the cockpit -- it would have to be enough. Grimly, he pulled the mask over his nose and mouth, then cut life support, diverting the power to the shields.
The scouts raced toward him from two directions, trying to cut him off before he reached the safety of the jumpgate. They were flying within reasonable limits, though, too prudent to push the envelope of safety. Neroon had no such qualms. He redlined every meter in the flyer, holding the tiny vessel together through sheer force of will.
Careening wildly to avoid their fire, Neroon pulled his flyer to within range of the jumpgate and keyed the opening signal. The jumpgate flared into operation, pulling him through to normal space beyond.
* * * * * * *
On the Ingata, Shukran leaned forward in the command chair, willing more speed to the warcruiser. Behind her, the door to the bridge whirred open. The FireWing stood to offer the chair to her commander.
"Carry on." Durell waved her back into the command chair. "Report."
"We received a message from Alyt Neroon. He was in a civilian-model flyer, being pursued by religious caste scouts. We estimated his location based on his signal." She brought up a small tactical display on the armrest. "The nearest jumpgates are here, and here. This one opens into nothing -- just open space. But this one," she pointed, "comes out in the vicinity of an asteroid belt." The woman looked up at Durell. "So that's where we're headed."
"In a civilian flyer...," he mused. Folding his arms across his broad chest, he narrowed his eyes and studied the tac display. "What was his message?"
"He said he had bad news. Then he saw the scouts and cut the transmission." She looked at Durell, eyes burning. "He was injured."
* * * * * * *
Neroon roared through the jumpgate and headed straight for the asteroid belt. Off to his starboard side, a jump point formed, belching forth the scouts' mothership. The StarRider maintained his course, pushing the flyer well past critical stress levels.
"This is Fleet Captain Zhakell. Surrender your vessel before it breaks apart."
Neroon ignored him, concentrating on his goal.
Behind him, a squadron of fighters poured forth from the cruiser. A moment later, two more jump points opened, and the rest of Zhakell's fleet arrived. A faint smile turned the corner of Neroon's mouth. In a way, he felt flattered. Within moments, he had made the asteroid belt, plunging straight into the debris-ridden mess and cutting his speed by 3/4. Now it was a game of nerves -- a deadly hide-and-seek.
The fighters pulled up short at the asteroid belt, reluctant to enter. Choosing their own safety over daring, they began to fire at the asteroids, determined to chase Neroon out or destroy him with the shattered debris.
Neroon pulled deeper into the belt, carefully navigating through the asteroids as they spun with random, deadly force. His temples began to throb as the air in his breather began running out. He fished hopefully underneath the seat for another canister, but found none. At this point, he had damaged the flyer so badly that he couldn't afford to reduce any power to the shields. Life support would just have to remain off. Frowning, he began working out a plan to lure in a fighter and board it...
"Alyt Neroon onboard Takari Flyer 934: your life support is diminishing. Surrender your vessel or you will die."
"Captain Zhakell, I recommend you choose your battles wisely. You cannot win this one." Neroon looked down at his console. In about two minutes he would be completely out of oxygen.
The responding voice sounded tinny in his ears. "Brave words are cheap. You are a fool to resist!"
At that instant, a jump point flared gold. The Ingata and her fighters erupted forth, all guns blazing.
Neroon closed his eyes for the briefest of moments and exhaled, smiling. He was home.
A familiar voice rang out. "This is Alyt Shukran of the warcruiser Ingata. I see you're having problems retrieving a flyer. We're here to help."
"We do not need your help, Ingata. This is none of your concern."
"Three Sharlin-class cruisers with full fighter complement against an unarmed flyer? Oh please, I insist."
Ingata's fighters sheered in, dancing in between the asteroid belt and the priests, blasting asteroids and religious caste weaponry with pinpoint accuracy. Neroon took advantage of the screen, spinning the little flyer through the resulting haze, careening wildly to avoid being hit by a stray shot or an asteroid. As he cleared the field, his vision began to blur. Trusting his fighters to maintain the screen, he flew straight toward Ingata.
When the docking beams grabbed the flyer, the force slammed Neroon against his seat restraint, knocking all the remaining air out of his lungs. Gasping, he groped for the emergency release, pulling as soon as he felt forward momentum cease. In a burst of flame, the hatch blew open, and a rush of hot bay air filled his lungs.
He heard the sound of footsteps sprinting toward him. Groggily, he rolled out of the cockpit, dropping onto the deck as a crew of workers raced to put out the fire. A strong hand hauled him to his feet.
"Neroon! A fine entrance -- it's good to see you alive."
The tall StarRider grasped his clan-brother by the shoulder and grinned back at him, then coughed. "I commend you on your timing, Durell." He started to say something else, but began to cough again.
"Do you care to tell me what you were doing in a civilian flyer, with a religious caste fleet after you?"
Neroon simply shook his head and coughed again.
Durell smiled, then spoke into his transponder. "Alyt Neroon is safely onboard. Release the flyer on my command."
* * * * * * *
A chime sounded, rousing Neroon from sleep. He checked the chronometer -- six hours of sleep -- more than he'd had in days. More important than that, it was time for Shukran to get off shift. He hurried his preparations, knowing she would come straight to the infirmary to see him.
He intercepted her in the corridor, just outside the lift.
"Alyt Neroon!" The young FireWing saluted, fist to palm, trying unsuccessfully to suppress a broad smile.
He returned her salute, bowing slightly. "Alyt Shukran. Well done! Another fleet of trophy ships to add to Ingata's collection." She fell into step beside him as he walked her to her quarters.
The door slid open smoothly, and Shukran stood aside to let him enter. Shyly, she followed him in. "I'll take your cloak."
He shrugged out of his cloak and armor and watched, amused, as she hung it beside her own. Without her armor, the slender half-caste looked almost fragile.
Done, she turned and looked at him. He held out his hand to her and pulled her into his embrace, holding her tightly without speaking for several moments. Then he kissed her, deeply. Slowly, he pulled away.
"Shukran, I wish we could speak of easier things... I have bad news."
She looked up at him, her dark eyes questioning. Her father's religious caste blood was very apparent in her slight build and delicate features. She was a warrior, raised FireWing in the tradition of her mother -- but her mixed blood could never be hidden.
He took her hands in his. Bad news was best delivered bluntly. "I'm sorry Shukran. I received news that your father... was the one on the hill."
She threw her head back in disbelief. "That's impossible -- it was almost a month ago. If it had been my father, they would have told me." She let go of his hands and crossed over to the other side of the room. "It can't be. It was someone else..."
"I'm sorry, Shukran. It was Rika."
"No!" She wheeled about angrily. "Rika is a common name in that caste. You're wrong."
As gently as he could, Neroon spoke. "It was Rika of the House of Kell, of the 5th Fain of Chudomo."
Shukran sucked in her breath harshly, then clenched her fists and turned away from him again. "Then it was a pointless death!" Her voice came out in a growl. "He lived a pointless life after my mother died -- hidden away on that hill, seeing no one, speaking to no one. For what?"
She spat out the words. "If he'd been in the compound, he could have stopped everything before it got out of hand. But no!" Her voice cracked. "And now he's dead, and we're at war!" Her hand shot out, denn'bok decompressing with a sharp click. Enraged, she lashed out at the one concession she had to her religious caste heritage -- a set of altar candles on a small shelf.
The candles crashed against the far wall, shattering their crystal holders. Shukran let her fighting pike drop from limp fingers, and crossed slowly over to the broken pieces littering the floor. She knelt quietly and began picking them up.
"My father gave these to me the day I left home for clan training. That was the last time I ever saw him. Once my mother died, he locked himself away."
Gently, Neroon gathered her in his arms and held her as she cried. When her shoulders stopped shaking, he lifted her face. She sniffed and wiped her eyes on her sleeve, then fixed her gaze intently on the toe of her left boot. Neroon kissed her lightly on top of her head, then walked over to the far corner of the room.
He knelt and reached under the table, where the last candleholder had rolled. It was chipped, but still intact. The StarRider rubbed it against his sleeve to bring up the shine, then fit the candle back inside. Quietly, he set it back on the little shelf and lit it. Shukran turned when she heard him strike the match.
Neroon took her hand and lead her to the couch. "Tell me about your father, Shukran. When you were a child, what did he do that made you smile?..."
They talked for hours, until finally the candle guttered out. A wistful look crossed the young woman's face. "So ends of the House of Kell."
"No," Neroon rumbled softly. "Because you are of the House of Kell, like your father." Gently, he traced her cheek where it joined her headbone. "And you are FireWing, like your mother." His fingers lightly played along the carved ridges of her headbone -- the rebellious crest of a warrior. "She was a courageous woman, Shukran. She chose to break with tradition to follow her heart."
Shukran reached up to touch him, her fingers cool against his face. Firmly, gently, she drew him down into a slow kiss.
He released her reluctantly. "It's only a matter of days before the war is over." He took a breath, feeling oddly young. "There are some... rituals I would like to discuss with you." He smiled as he saw the shine in her eyes. "But right now Durell has a fighter waiting for me."
* * * * * * *
After a week and a half of intense bombardment and house-to-house fighting, the warriors had driven the religious caste to their knees. Delenn sent the religious caste's message of surrender to Neroon. They would surrender to the warrior caste at the place and time of their choosing.
Neroon chose sunset at the Temple of Varenni, knowing full well that Shakiri was no student of history. Shakiri went along with the choice, seeing it as a chance to return to the glorious traditions of Minbar's warlike past. He also liked the fact that it was equipped to send a record of the surrender throughout Minbar.
The Temple of Varenni was a relic, rarely used any more. But before the time of Valen, disputes between the castes were settled and new leaders selected there. The building was little more than a covered stone arena, just a central stage encircled by row upon row of balconies. Soon it would be full -- as warriors, workers, and priests pressed together to await the surrender. It was a stage for a life-or-death performance.
At center stage stood Shai Alyt Shakiri, gazing up into the galleries and basking in the glory of his moment. Alongside him were two enlisted aides and a bodyguard.
Alyt Neroon stood alone, off to one side, keeping a watchful eye on things, and every now and then scanning the galleries. He wondered how many Minbari were missing from those balconies. What was it Shakiri had said?
* The loss of a few lives now will save us many more lives in the future. *
He flicked a disgusted glance at the warrior caste leader. It had taken far more than a few lives. And of those that survived... he surveyed the faces of the warriors around him -- what price had they paid?
Again, Neroon looked up, searching the crowd. This time he caught sight of Shukran. She shot him a crooked smile, warming him through. Masking a smile, he inclined his head to her, then turned back toward the stage.
Delenn played her part perfectly, just as they had planned. When the ancient Starfire Wheel burst open, shooting white flames down onto the stage below, the primal force of it took even Neroon by surprise, even though he was prepared. But now the play had begun, it would last only five acts -- for anyone staying in the fire for more than five turns of the Starfire Wheel would die.
The Wheel grated open a second turn. Delenn stepped into the fire, challenging Shakiri to follow her, as in the days before Valen, when wars were ended by the death of the one who chose to die for the rightness of his caste's cause. The caste leader who valued his life above his caste would live -- in shame, conceding defeat.
As Neroon and Delenn expected, Shakiri balked at the unexpected ritual of the Starfire Wheel. The Wheel grated open a third turn. Neroon stepped forward, his voice ringing clear and challenging throughout the temple, throwing Shakiri's brave words back into his face.
"You said that a warrior does not fear death, Shakiri! You said that death is only one of two consequences: neither valued nor feared above the other. Death is merely a release from our obligations!" Neroon took a step forward, menacingly, causing Shakiri to retreat. "Why then are you afraid, Shakiri? Have you put your own importance above our people?"
The WindSword looked incredulously at his Chief of Staff. "Do you take their side?"
"I speak for our people. Who do you speak for? And what are you willing to do?" Neroon looked pointedly up into the galleries. "They are waiting for your answer."
Shakiri glared at him, trapped. The Wheel grated open a fourth turn, and Shakiri entered. He bent almost double under the intensity of the flame, while Delenn stood erect, enduring the pain.
The Wheel grated open a fifth turn -- the final level anyone was known to survive. The fire was taking a heavy toll on Delenn, but still she stood erect. Writhing in pain, Shakiri begged her to leave the wheel with him. Finally he conceded defeat and leapt free of the flames.
Neroon waited a moment, expecting Delenn to exit the Wheel like they had planned. Horrified, he watched as she raised her arms to the light, then collapsed.
The StarRider sprang forward into the fire, reeling under the assault of the flames as the Wheel grated to a lethal sixth turn. He picked her up and handed her out of the Wheel to her aide. The rightness of their cause rang in his heart, in his head -- Minbar would not be divided again. Neither caste could be allowed to win this war.
The flames were blinding. Staring up into the light, Neroon StarRider raised his arms and cried out the only words he could think of to save his people and end the war.
"I was born warrior caste; but I see now... the calling of my heart is religious! The war is over! Listen to her! Listen..."
Above him, the Starfire Wheel grated to its seventh and final turn.
* In Valen's name -- the Light! *
* * * * * * *
Shukran watched, unbelieving, as the drama unfolded down below. Mutely, she mouthed a protest as Neroon took the place of Delenn in the Starfire Wheel. His voice rang clearly throughout the temple, amplified in pain. Then, to Shukran's horror, Neroon disappeared in a flash of light and dust. The noise of the explosion snapped Shukran into action. With a hoarse cry, she vaulted from the balcony, opening her pike before she even hit the floor, and charging Shakiri.
Shai Alyt Durell sprang after her and tackled her just before she reached the caste leader, slamming her heavily into the Starfire Wheel, and sending her pike flying. She rolled nimbly to one side, almost kicking free before Durell shifted his weight and pinned her to the floor. He brought his face down close, his dark eyes burning into hers. "No!"
The ash fell around them in a pallid veil as they struggled, coating them in a thin veneer of grey. Finally, Shukran coughed and pushed against Durell's chest so she could roll to her side and breathe. He lifted his weight off her and sat beside her, his hand resting protectively on the base of her neck. "Did you hear what he said?" he asked quietly. Silent, she nodded, then shook in a short coughing spasm.
"It's over, now, Shukran. Neroon has ended it. Minbari will not kill Minbari again."
Shukran pressed her eyes shut for a moment, feeling the smooth, ancient stone against her face, willing herself to slow her heartrate, forcing herself to dull her pain. She opened her eyes again and tried to breathe deeply, then looked back up at Durell. The StarRider rolled to his knees and offered his hand to help her up.
Silent, heartsick, the two warriors stood together in the circle, their faces and uniforms streaked with ash. Shukran turned to face Shakiri, and saw to her disgust that he still lay sprawled on the outer ring, flinching beneath a borrowed cloak.
A religious castemember cautiously approached her to return her denn'bok. He held it out gingerly, his eyes filled with a sadness that Shukran did not expect. She took the pike and bowed, murmuring her thanks in the religious dialect. His eyes widened in surprise, then he bowed low over steepled hands and backed away.
Delenn had risen to her feet, and was leaning heavily on her attaché, watching in pained silence.
Holding their pikes loosely at their sides, Shai Alyt Durell and Alyt Shukran stood squared to Shakiri. The tracks of her tears were clearly visible against the ash that smudged Shukran's face, but her eyes glowed dark and proud. Ashes and dust of the Starfire swirled in the light behind them, eerily silhouetting the two warriors against the darkness of the temple.
The silence was broken by footsteps behind Durell. He turned to see one of the bodyguards walk up to the circle and kneel, his palm in the ash. The warrior then stood, wiping his hand across his chest, leaving a grey smudge. He left the circle and took up a position behind Durell and Shukran. One by one, the other warriors came forward to kneel in the circle, then take their place with the others, leaving Shai Alyt Shakiri alone but for his two retainers.
The caste leader rose, spurning the assistance of his men, and stood glowering at the warriors he once commanded. "Warriors!," he spat. "The religious caste has surrendered!"
At that, one of his men flinched. He brushed aside Shakiri's restraining hand and turned his back, striding to the circle, where he, too, knelt and smeared ash across his chest, then joined the others in a defiant formation behind Durell and Shukran. The remaining aide just stared down at the ground, as if trying to bore a hole through the stone in his discomfort. Out of honor, he could not leave Shakiri now, no matter how much worse things got.
Shai Alyt Durell saluted Delenn, then he and Shukran pivoted and led the warriors out of the temple. Horrified, Shakiri watched his power disintegrate before his eyes. He wheeled around toward the religious caste; but saw only their backs as they disappeared down the corridor. In desperation, he raised his eyes to the gallery, but saw no support there, either. The warriors and religious castemembers were filing out in silence, leaving only the workers staring down with hard, emotionless faces.
Shakiri whirled around in rage and lashed out at the only other person left in the room with him.
His aide had no time to react. He died rather slowly, staring up at Shakiri with incredulous, accusing eyes, his fingers stiffening around the hilt of the knife, a faint pink foam forming at the corner of his mouth. Shakiri dropped heavily to his knees beside him and just stared. By the time the medics arrived, it was too late. Shakiri did not even resist as they led him away.