Shadow-Touched, Shadow-Lost
By Aris Merquoni

Morden had a grin on his face when he exited the transport tube to the Zocalo. 
His work was going better than he had expected. Ambassador Mollari would be the 
perfect help in the coming battles. And now that the Centauri was indebted to 
his associates for the return of the Eye, Morden could afford to relax. 
However, before he had taken more than a few steps from the transport tube, he 
was nearly run over by a brunette woman in a jumpsuit.

"I'm sorry," he said, helping her up from where she had sprawled. He was a 
heartless bastard, but he could still be polite, dammit!

"No, I'm sorry," she said breathlessly, getting to her feet. He caught a flash 
of silvery green eyes, impossibly deep, before she turned and looked back in 
the direction she had been running from. "Oh, hell," she said quietly.

Morden could see the reason for her flight just then, coming up on her tail. 
He was about 5'9", blonde, and ugly as hell. He pointed a shaky finger at the 
woman and said in a voice that had been heavily influenced by chemicals, 
"Alana, I think you better come home with me now."

"And I think you should shove your head in the fusion reactor," Alana snapped.

"Look, girlie," the guy slurred, "You better listen to me. You are coming with 
me..." The guy's finger had a problem finding his chest. "Back to my place..."

"Andrew, I'm not going anywhere with you." By this time, a crowd had started 
to gather.

Andrew growled something and pulled a knife out from under his shirt. "You 
don't tell me what you ain't doin' girlie," he said, and lunged at her.

The problem with being drunk, Morden decided, was that you couldn't see who 
you were aiming for. As the blade neared his throat he sidestepped, grabbed 
Andrew's wrist, kneed him in the crotch, and broke his arm in three places. 
Then he dropped the howling man to the floor.

Alana looked at him in surprise. He shrugged. "Think of it as evolution in 
action. Come on, let's leave before people start demanding explanations."

"Right," she agreed, and followed Morden out of the still staring crowd. "Of 
course, evolution in action would require you to sterilize him."

Morden snorted. "I wish. Unfortunately, I don't have any sterilizing agents on 
me." Shadows moved at his back.

"You a doctor?" Alana asked.

Morden grinned harshly. "Not exactly."

"Well, thanks anyway," the woman said. "My name's Alana Spencer."

"Mr. Morden, at your service."

"Right. Well, Mr. Morden, thanks for the help. I... I'll have to see if I can 
look you up sometime. Good-bye." Alana frowned slightly, then turned and pushed 
her way through the crowd again.

Morden watched her go with an unreadable expression on his face. As he turned 
away, he could see only shadows.

The next day, he was taking some well-deserved relaxation time when he bumped 
into Alana again. "Hello there," he said as she apologized.

"Oh, Mr. Morden. Hello." She grinned at him and he found himself grinning back. 
"I was just thinking about you..."

"I'm flattered."

"You're sweet. I was wondering... I mean, you probably saved me some serious 
pain yesterday, even if you don't think much about it. I was wondering, well... 
would you like to have dinner tonight?"

Morden blinked back surprise, then grinned again. "Yes, that would be great."

"All right! So... where shall we go? Italian? Chinese? There isn't much variety 
stationside, but still... what do you want?"

Morden nearly choked. "Oh... I don't know. What do you want?"

Alana grinned slowly. "Well... if you don't insist on picking up the check..."

"Scout's honor," Morden replied.

"Good. Meet me at my place at 1830 - Red six, level four." She flashed him 
another grin. "If the time's all right?"

"Fine. Perfectly fine." Morden watched with a smile on his face as she walked 
off.

Shadows moved behind him. A raspy voice came to his ears from the translator in 
his spine. "Not wise."

"Wise as any human attraction gets," he replied in an undertone.

"Your wife? Your daughter? What of them?"

Morden winced, felt the pain welling up inside of him, but managed to keep it 
beneath the surface. He raised a hand to touch the pendant around his neck. 
"Dead," he whispered. "Gone. You showed me. It's been so long..."

"You feel nothing at betraying their memory?"

Pain and guilt wracked his mind. "I..." he sensed them, waiting for his answer. 
They were simply curious, uncaring but interested in his reaction. Slowly, 
Morden got himself back under control, under the masks that he had taken on. 
"They're gone," he repeated. "I can do nothing to change that."

Satisfied, the shadows at his back receded. Morden sighed, and turned back to 
his own quarters. Suddenly, he didn't feel like walking after all.

1830 came quickly, and Morden felt a sudden twinge of nervousness as he stopped 
outside Alana's door. What was he doing here, really? Maybe his associates were 
right, maybe this was wrong.

"A promise is a promise," he growled at himself, and hit the chime on the door.

"One sec!" Alana's voice rang out cheerfully from the speaker. A moment later, 
the door slid open to reveal Alana herself, in a sensible black dress, her hair 
sweeping down over her shoulders. She held out a hand. "Shall we go, Mr. 
Morden?"

"Certainly, Miss Spencer," he said, offering his arm. She grinned and took it, 
and they started back toward the transport tube. "Where are we going, exactly?"

"You gave me your word not to try and pay, right?"

"Of course, but..."

"The Fresh Air, then. I got reservations this afternoon."

Morden managed to keep his jaw in place. "You... you're sure about picking up 
the tab?" he managed to say lamely.

"Certain. Didn't we just go over this?" Alana grinned at him and he grinned 
back.

"All right. I just think..."

"What? So eager to start things off with an argument?" Alana didn't sound 
angry, just amused.

"No... no." Morden chuckled. "Sorry. Forget it. The Fresh Air sounds nice."

"Good."

The dinner was delightful, and the coffee tasted almost real. Alana grinned 
over her glass of iced tea. "So," she said conversationally, "are you going to 
tell me your first name anytime?"

Morden shrugged. "I was on an archaeology expedition for the last few years. 
Archaeologists have the habit of calling you by your last name, so I got used 
to it."

Alana chuckled. "That's not an answer, but okay. So, you're an archaeologist?"

"A linguist, actually. I was working for Earthforce, and got assigned to an 
expedition to the Rim."

"Ahh." Alana suddenly flashed a grin. "I suppose that being Earthforce means 
that it's classified, hmm?"

Morden smiled hesitantly. "Something like that."

"All right, I won't ask, then."

"Sensitive of you."

"So... what are you doing on station? Research?"

Morden shrugged again. "Partly that, partly work, partly vacationing. It's 
really up in the air right now what my current... employers need me for."

"Oho, I see." Alana grinned again and took a sip of her iced tea.

"So, what do you do?" Morden asked.

Alana made a vague gesture with a hand. "Oh, this and that. Right now, I'm 
working with that Minbari charity group for war survivors..."

"Charity?" Morden asked, sounding more disapproving than he wanted to.

Alana chuckled. "Ahh, yes. Well, normally, I'd stay as far away from charity 
groups as I could... especially out of comm range. But I was at loose ends for 
a while, and there's not much a programmer can do, so I ended up doing database 
stuff for them. Sounds interesting, right?" she asked sarcastically.

Morden chuckled. "Sorry. I'm a practical Darwinist. I don't believe in 
charity."

"Oh, I believe in it, it exists," Alana replied. "I don't think it should, but 
hey, they're giving me money." She grinned. "I'm Darwinistic, too... I want to 
survive. So, therefore, I do things to not end up in places like Downbelow or 
something."

"To survival, then," Morden said, raising his mug of coffee.

"To survival."

It was an ironic toast at best, Morden reflected. Only ten years ago he had 
been drinking to the same thing, desperately trying to decipher Minbari during 
the war. 'To survival' was the only toast that they had used, back then. It 
seemed the only thing that needed the extra hope.

Now, it seemed right, for some reason. Alana paid, and they wandered out into 
the Zocalo. "Back to my place?" she asked.

Morden shrugged. "Why not?"

Alana's quarters were just a touch over economy-sized, small enough so that the 
bed recessed into the wall when not in use, but large enough to have a 
partition to separate the bathroom and changing area from the rest of the room. 
The main area was decorated mainly with two chairs, a coffee table, and a 
scattering of framed, unframed, and unfinished artwork. Morden glanced at those 
pieces displayed on the walls. "Nice art," he said conversationally.

Alana grinned. "Thank you. All computer-generated; when I get bored writing 
code, it's scary what my twisted little mind can come up with."

Morden chuckled and examined one of the pieces more closely. His blinked in 
surprise when he saw the runes etched into the border. "Kandarian?" he asked.

Alana glanced at the piece. "Oh, yeah. I needed inspiration, so I grabbed a 
book- guess which one."

He nodded absently, translating the runes in his mind and speaking the 
translation aloud. "'In times of screaming unbalance, remember the darkness is 
warm and comforting, the shadows hide good as well as evil, and the chaos 
howling outside your window was brought on by your own actions.'" He looked up. 
"Very profound."

Alana shrugged and grinned. "I was feeling really dark when I wrote that. 
There's some other stuff in there that's just... random."

"I think I found some. 'When the sky hits your eye like a big piece of-'" he 
stopped, frowned, then chuckled. "Pi. Cute. 'Like a big piece of Pi, it hurts.' 
Gee."

"That was one of the more random ones."

"I see. 'I'd give my right arm to be ambidexterous.' 'A fortune cookie you 
don't want to see: that wasn't chicken.'" He chuckled. "That's one that I think 
I've gotten on some occasions."

"Especially up here." Alana came to stand right behind him. Her breath brushed 
his jaw as she looked over his shoulder at the picture. "Let's see... I think I 
have 'I think I think therefore I think I am' in there somewhere."

"I think I found it. So, you translated all of this," he made a sweeping 
gesture indicating the runes, "into Kandarian, and added it into your art?"

"Sure," she said. "Why not?"

Why not? Morden reflected later that night as he tried to sleep. He fingered 
the pendant laying on his chest, all he had left of his wife and child. He felt 
a a shadow of the pain he had felt when Anna Sheridan, meaning well, had snuck 
it out of his room, had it put on a chain, and given it to him as a New Year's 
present. Some gift. He remembered exactly what he had felt, then; first hatred 
of her, of Anna, for stealing the stone, and then the deep self-loathing that 
he had to live with every waking moment, like a thousand knives tearing his 
soul apart, hating himself for not knowing that the stone was even gone. He 
couldn't hate Anna, anyway. She was the first person he had allowed himself to 
talk to, to open up to. She was the first person who cared.

He sighed. Anna, or what was left of her, was piloting a ship patrolling 
Z'ha'dum and watching for Vorlon activity. As if the mere thought of the name 
of their old enemy summoned them, he could hear the 'voices' of his associates 
coming out of the shadows.

"The Centauri will be perfect for our plans," one was saying. They didn't have 
names, but Morden recognized the speaker as perhaps one of the more influential 
in the group that accompanied him.

"We have used the Narn before," the second one said. "Why not now?"

"They have grown weak, single-minded, under the Centauri. They want too little, 
resist our influence. The Centauri are still powerful, and aching for the days 
before their decline."

"But-"

"The Centauri will be perfect for our needs. They fight, and love to fight, 
whether it be with ships and guns or with words and money. We must serve our 
cause, and this is how. There is only chaos and evolution."

"Destiny is on our side," conceded the second voice.

Morden fell uneasily into sleep.

Days passed. Morden and Alana met occasionally in the Zocalo, sharing coffee, 
companionship, and sometimes just a friendly hello. They met once to watch the 
Mutai and see various alien races beating each other up, and walked for a while 
afterwards. "What a way to get a high," Alana remarked. "Rushing into a ring 
and getting your brains beat out. Sure, it's exciting, but what's the point?"

"Throwback to the barbarian era," Morden replied. "I think it's a stage all 
civilizations go through. Humans, Minbari, the Drazi still aren't out of it, 
for all they've developed space flight."

"That's one way of looking at it. Is it a testosterone thing?"

Morden chuckled. "No, I don't think so. You looked just as bloodthirsty as the 
other spectators."

"True." Alana stopped at a booth, looked over some things, and paid the cashier 
for what looked like a coiled spring made of plastic. One side was colored 
blue, the other green.

"What's that?" Morden asked over her shoulder.

Alana turned around and displayed her prize. "It's a Slinky!" She held the 
spring in one hand, palm up, then turned her hand slightly. The spring cascaded 
out into her other palm. By lifting first one hand and then the other, the 
spring shifted back and forth. The blue and the green mixed and shifted, making 
a hypnotic play of colors.

Morden raised an eyebrow. "What does it do?"

"Well, if we had stairs, it could walk down them. It's just a toy. I used to 
have one when I was growing up, but it was too heavy to haul off Earth. It was 
a real metal one, I mean." Alana folded the plastic thing back into its 
original cylindrical shape and stuck it in her pocket. "Come on. Let's head 
back to my place."

At her quarters, Alana took out something from a safe hidden behind one of her 
paintings. "Ssh," she said, removing a small vacuum-sealed tub. "This is a 
secret, and if word got out, I'd be trampled."

"What is it?"

Alana grinned ferociously. "Blue Mountain coffee. Over two hundred years old, 
but still fresh- I love vacuum-sealing."

"Real... coffee?"

"Yeah. Really *good* coffee, at that. The crop was destroyed when Japan went 
through the war, but I managed to get my hands on some. Don't ask me how, but 
it took some doing." Alana was setting up a coffee machine on the limited space 
open on her counter. "This stuff is... ambrosia. The best coffee of coffee. 
Turned me off to fake stuff."

The coffee maker took about thirty seconds to heat the water, and two minutes 
to make a half pot. Alana grinned and poured Morden a cup, waiting for his 
reaction as he tasted it.

His eyebrows hit his hairline. "Wow," he managed to say.

Alana's grin widened. "See? That's why I hate the fake stuff they serve here."

"I don't blame you." Morden took another sip. "Where did you get this?"

"Oh, you know, arms dealing on the black market and such. No, really, it's sort 
of a family heirloom- one that diminishes as it gets passed down from 
generation to generation."

"Wow," Morden said again.

"Yeah." They were silent as they finished off the rest. "Look... I think I have 
another job."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. Off-station." She turned away, cleaning out her coffee mug. "On a Narn 
military base."

"Isn't that a little bit of a switch? Going from working with a charity 
organization to a military base?" Morden tried to conceal the shock, the hurt 
that he had felt at the words 'off station.'

"Yeah," she said, "but, then again, I think I'd be more comfortable working in 
a military setting than for a charity group- you know that." She glanced back 
at him. "I'll be back- it's only for a few months. Quadrant Thirty-Seven isn't 
*that* far away."

Morden frowned in puzzlement. "Isn't that a border outpost? What would you be 
doing there?"

Alana shrugged. "It's confidential. All they said was they didn't have a 
competent enough programmer, they needed a freelancer, and they didn't trust 
the Minbari. And, of course, they wouldn't go to the Centauri for help, since 
they both seem to be fighting for that area of space."

Warning buzzers went off in the back of Morden's mind. "Isn't it a bit 
dangerous out there?"

"It's dangerous here, sweet thing, what with every diplomat from every major 
star power in one huge floating can. I'll be safe enough."

"All right." Morden heard whispers in the back of his mind, scratching noises, 
then silence. "If you say so."

"Worried?" Alana walked over and slipped her arms over his shoulders, behind 
his neck. More by reflex than anything else, he looped his arms around her 
waist. "I'm flattered."

"I- yes, I am worried. Centauri-Narn tension's been heating up lately, and I 
don't want you caught in the middle." We're working to make the tension heat 
up, he mentally corrected himself.

Alana sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. "I need the money," she 
admitted. "Charity work doesn't pay, and as much as I might get moral 
satisfaction for helping people, it doesn't pay the rent. I was using it as a 
stopgap- a bridge. I really need to take this job."

"Just... be careful, all right?" Morden surprised himself with the words. He 
was working... he was mourning... he was working for his associates to mourn 
his loss, his wife, his daughter. And now...

"Are you all right?" Alana asked. He realized that he had been staring off into 
space, thinking. His vision snapped back into focus on a pair of silvery-green 
eyes that seemed to hold the universe. Silently, he shook his head.

Alana drew a hand back and traced the chain holding his pendant with her 
fingers. "I've always wondered what this was," she whispered. She lifted the 
stone from his chest, and he closed his fingers over hers. She looked up, met 
his eyes. "Anfran, right? A love stone?" He nodded. "Who..."

"My wife," he said softly.

"Ahh." Alana's face was still.

"She... our daughter... they were killed in the Io bombing. The jumpgate."

"The terrorist bombing." Alana's mouth tightened with anger. "Those... oh, 
Morden, I'm sorry..."

"I couldn't even..." he drew a shuddering breath. "I'm sorry. You don't need to 
hear this."

"No," she said, "but maybe you need to tell it."

And so he told her. Every agonizing detail, he told her. And all through the 
horrible story, they held each other close, Alana comforting him and holding 
him through the pain.

After an indeterminate amount of time he trailed off, running out of things to 
say. Alana thought for a few seconds, then said, "Is this the first time you've 
ever talked about it?"

"No," he answered truthfully. "Second."

"Ahh." A few seconds later, "does it help? To talk?"

"A little," he admitted.

"Ahh," she said again. They were sitting on her bed by this time, and her face 
was inches from his. Without thinking about it, he kissed her.

Alana was startled for a moment, but then kissed back, arms encircling his neck 
again. She pulled him down to the bed beside her, but he pulled away. She broke 
the kiss, her eyes showing confusion. "I'm sorry," he said. "I should go-"

"No, wait," she said. "I understand."

"It's late," he said. Shadows shifted under his gaze, sending chills down his 
spine. "I..."

"All right," she said suddenly. "But I'm finalizing that deal with the Narn 
tomorrow, and probably leaving the day after that." He looked back at her, 
catching her silver-green eyes. Clear as windows to the soul, someone had said, 
and they were showing a troubled heart. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'll meet you in the Zocalo, at the coffee place," he promised.

"All right." Then, in an attempt at forced levity, "Sweet dreams."

His mouth tightened, more a grimace than a smile. "Right. Good-night, Alana."

He had nightmares. Images playing behind his eyes, of good-byes sent and never 
meant, of days that could never be reclaimed, of fights and guilt that he had 
slept on for hours afterward. Of sex and blood and joy and pain and madness, 
all flickering by too fast for him to get a grip, sliding down into the 
darkness. "You chose," said a voice, and another replied, "you were chosen."

The images stopped with a lurch, and he was standing in a bare room. There was 
a spotlight on him. "Who are you?" asked one voice, and a second snapped, 
"Wrong question." A PPG fired, and a man tumbled into the spotlight next to 
him, clutching a cane. There was a death's-head grin on his face, and he 
whispered with his dying breath, "we were right about them, and they were wrong 
about you."

As the image dissolved, Morden recognized the dead man as the first voice, and 
his own voice as the second. "What do you want?" he screamed at the shadows 
surrounding him, and got only echoes in reply.

"Who are *you?* What do *you* want?" asked a third voice, one he didn't 
recognize. "They can't answer," a female voice added, and he recognized Delenn, 
the Minbari ambassador. "I just want to make a difference," he tried to say, 
but the words were swept from his mouth.

Suddenly, reality snapped into focus, and it was dark. He was laying on his 
side, blinking sleep from his eyes. "Lights, low," he ordered the voice-
activation.

"Are you all right?" came a voice from inside his head. He recognized one of 
his associates and frowned. Since when did they concern themselves with a bad 
night's sleep? he wondered.

"Fine, thanks," he said cautiously.

"The Vorlons tried to get inside your mind," the alien said. "We had to take 
drastic measures to stop them."

Morden shuddered. "Thanks," he said. "If those tight-laced control freaks got 
into my brain, who knows what they'd screw up." He believed them, trusted 
them totally. Why shouldn't he? He glanced at the clock. It was early, too 
early. He swung out of bed anyway, letting it pull back into the wall. Shadows 
shifted, melted away.

Two hours later he was brooding over a cup of coffee. Coffee wasn't a good 
thing to brood over, he had been noticing, because you had to drink it fast or 
else it got cold. He was on his third cup and wondering when his associates 
were going to start complaining about their expense budget when Alana sat down 
next to him.

He glanced up. She smiled faintly. "Well, I have the job."

"Congratulations," he said, but it sounded hollow.

"We're shipping out in a few hours."

His head jerked around. "A few hours? But..."

Alana shrugged. "Narns. Totally paranoid. They hired me, and then wanted to 
kidnap me and pull me off without waiting. Got a private transport and 
everything. I managed to weasel out of a few hours by telling them I needed to 
get my stuff together; otherwise I think they would have tied me up and tranked 
me."

Morden winced in sympathy. "So... you're going back to your place to pack up?"

"Yeah." Alana sighed. "I swung by here to tell you. I wish... I wish we had 
some more time, but we don't."

"Come on," he said, standing up. "If we only have a few hours, let's not waste 
them."

A few hours. They seemed to last only a few minutes. Before he knew it, Morden 
was back in his own quarters, Alana just a memory, a flash of green eyes and 
the touch of rose-colored lips. She wouldn't even be able to send messages. 
Months, it seemed, would have to go by with nothing but work to worry about.

Days went by, hour by hour, it seemed. Morden kept one ear to the political 
side of the station, setting up certain 'projects' with the Vice President, but 
couldn't find anything to with the Centauri until a few months later.

It was December, the last few days of the year. Centauri and Narn tensions were 
getting strained over a section of their border. There was a base, a military 
base that the Narns owned in neutral space, that was getting on the Centauri's 
nerves. And the base was in...

"Quadrant Thirty-Seven," Morden muttered under his breath as he looked over the 
information he had bought. "I don't believe it."

Shadows shifted next to him. "Mollari has left a meeting. He is not happy with 
the results."

"A meeting over the border, I assume."

"Partly, but yes. He has been ordered to give the sector of space to the 
Narns."

"I can see why he's not happy. Is there anything we can do?"

"Several things. We have ships in that sector."

"Then the easiest way to settle this would be to destroy the-" He stopped, 
heart pounding in his ears. Alana was still on the base, he was sure of it. 
There was no way to get her a message, and if the base was destroyed, she would 
be... if he gave the order, she... it would be all his fault, and she would be gone, forever. It would be his fault and she would be *dead* and it would be 
HIS fault and she would be dead and it would be ALL HIS FAULT--

"There is no other way," the shadows by his door whispered.

"No other way," he repeated, his heart in his throat. There has to be a way, 
his heart repeated, has to be another way, but in his mind he knew that their 
solution was the only solution, that it had to happen like this.

Slowly, he composed himself. He didn't know that she was still on the base. She 
could have left already, and a few days later she would be back on Babylon 5, 
away from the war on the border. Getting his mind in order, he called the 
Centauri Ambassador.

He got the ambassador's assistant instead. "Yes?"

"Ambassador Mollari, please."

"I'm sorry, he's very busy. Perhaps I can take a message."

"Wait, Vir," he heard in the background. "Let me see." In another moment, the 
ambassador's face appeared on the screen. "Yes, I thought it was you."

Morden smiled slightly. "I trust the Eye is still safe."

"Yes, with your help. What is it?"

"You have a problem, ambassador. I believe I can help, but I think we should 
meet. In the park. In say an hour?" Morden raised his eyebrows in inquiry.

"I'll be there," Ambassador Mollari promised. The Centauri turned away, then 
back again. "Oh, one more thing, I never caught your name."

"Morden." He paused. "I'll see you in an hour." With a flick of his wrist, 
Morden turned the com off.

"Good," the shadows murmured.

Morden took Alana's Slinky off of the desk, shifted it from one palm to 
another. An hour. An hour to regret what he had to do. An hour to wonder if 
there really was no other way. An hour...

In an hour, he was at the park.

The part of the park Morden was meeting the ambassador in was a maze of sorts, 
filled with lush, green plants that blocked one's sight and more importantly, 
one's hearing. Morden was waiting for Mollari in a shadowed nook, and it didn't 
take the ambassador too long to walk past. "Ambassador," he called out in 
greeting.

"Mister Morden. You never gave me a chance to thank you after you rescued the 
Eye from those triple-damned raiders."

"Unnecessary, I'm here to be of service, ambassador," Morden said, grinning. 
"My associates believe that you are a person of great potential, trapped in a 
position where your skills are unseen and unappreciated." Morden flattered the 
ambassador skillfully and waited for the Centauri to tell him to shut up and 
get to the point. "They'd like to change that."

"Yes," Londo said slowly, "I have heard this before. And I have stopped 
listening." Self-depreciation crept into the ambassador's voice, and inwardly 
Morden crowed in triumph. You can hook a man with power, especially when he 
wants it but thinks that nothing can get it for him.

"There comes a time," Mollari continued, "when you look into the mirror, and 
you realize that what you see is all that you will ever be. And you accept it- 
or you kill yourself." Then, with a hint of joviality, "Or you stop looking 
into mirrors. No," he said finally, "nothing can be changed."

"Then nothing's lost by trying," Morden offered reasonably. More seriously, he 
went on, "You have a problem, Ambassador Mollari. Quadrant Thirty-Seven. We can 
fix it for you if you let us." There it was, out on the table. Now to be 
laughed at, and to convince the Centauri that this wasn't a joke.

"A heavily guarded Narn military outpost," Mollari started incredulously, "And 
you and your associates are going to fix it for me?" As expected, Londo started 
laughing. "You have a very peculiar sense of humor."

"Yes I do," Morden agreed. Then he stopped grinning. "Tell your government," he 
said slowly, "that you will personally take care for Quadrant Thirty-Seven."

"You think I'm drunk," Mollari said, "Or insane."

"Perhaps," Morden agreed, grinning.

"And you don't want credit for this... grand endeavor?" Londo asked, again 
incredulous.

"No," Morden said sincerely. "We're simply here to help." When Mollari didn't 
reply, Morden smiled again and turned away.

"Mister Morden," Londo said, in a quite different tone of voice. Morden turned 
back to the ambassador. "If I may ask... what is the price for this... help?"

Morden smiled inwardly. Caught, like a fish on a hook. "There is no price, 
ambassador," he said, not untruthfully. "But at some point in the future, if we 
deliver on our promises we may come to you and ask you for a favor." He smiled 
and bowed out, leaving the Centauri with a thoughtful expression on his face.

He got back to his quarters without incident. When the door slid shut, the 
shadows at his back moved, shifted.

"It is time," they said.

"Yes," he agreed.

"It is your choice."

Morden turned to them, the silent watchers. "My choice," he said softly. Then, 
louder, "My God-dammed choice! I have no choice. I've promised the Centauri. 
There's no other way. My hands are tied. Do it," he snapped. "Destroy it. 
Eliminate it. Wipe it off the map! Blow it up!" His hands were shaking. 
"Just... do it. Now."

"Yes," the shadows whispered, and vanished.

"Oh, God," Morden cried, and collapsed.

New Years Eve came, and Morden watched emotionlessly as Earth Force One was 
reduced to a powder of ash in space. He tried not to visualize images, images 
of the Narn base crumbling under the laser-red fire of his associates' spider 
ships, images of Alana-

"No," he said. "She can't be. She's not there, dammit." But in his heart, he 
was unconvinced.

"It is done," came a raspy voice from behind him. He spun around. Shadows 
shifted under his gaze.

"Everything destroyed?" he asked, just to make sure.

"Everything."

"Great," Morden said heartlessly.

The vidcom chimed. Morden took a second to compose himself, then reached for 
the screen. "Yes?" he asked.

The face of Ambassador Mollari glared at him from the screen. "Mister Morden. I 
wish to see you. In the park. Immediately." The screen blinked off.

Morden shrugged to himself. "Good of a time as any."

He found the Ambassador sitting on a bench in the park. "Ambassador," he said 
to the Centauri's back. Londo spun around. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes," Mollari said, distraught. "What have you done?"

Morden shrugged, hiding his own feelings about the matter. "Only what you asked 
me to do. You had a problem in Quadrant Thirty-Seven, we took care of it for 
you."

"Yes, but you killed- ten thousand Narns!"

"I didn't know you cared," Morden said harshly, turning to face him. He paused 
to let his words sink in. "Ten thousand, a hundred thousand, a million- what's 
the difference? They're Narns, ambassador, your sworn enemy." Ten thousand 
Narns. And Alana... but he couldn't think of that now. He had to hide it. He 
kept his gaze condescending, trying to control his emotions.

"Yes, I know, but I didn't think... I thought that you would find a way to- to 
protect our ships, or to cripple their forces, not-"

Morden spied a couple coming up the path behind Londo, and signaled the 
ambassador to be quiet. After they had passed, he turned back to the Centauri.

"Ambassador," he said slowly. "Your name is being spoken at the highest level 
of the Centauri government. They don't know how you did it. They don't care! 
They credit you with saving them from another embarrassing incident without 
creating a war in the process." He grinned, but it didn't touch his eyes. 
"They've noticed you, ambassador. Which was the point of the exercise. I hear 
they have great plans for you."

"Yes, but ten thousand... in cold blood..." Londo didn't sound convinced. 
Morden didn't blame him.

"Ambassador." Morden straightened up and put on a winning smile. "You're a 
hero. Enjoy it!" He smiled again. "I'll be around." With that, he brushed by 
the startled ambassador and headed back home before the Centauri saw him loose 
control.

When he got to his room, he was shaking hard enough that he nearly dropped his 
key. when he got inside, he collapsed against the wall. "Oh, God," he said. 
"Oh, God. I can't take it."

He stumbled to his chair, sat down, cradled his head in his hands. Pulling on 
years of mediation, he calmed himself down, tried to relax. Tried to forget. 
There is only chaos and evolution. The cycle must continue. There is only chaos 
and fire and war, and we must fight for our freedom from the rules.

His mind spiraled down, into darkness. Darkness, and chaos. The only constant 
in the universe, chaos. It's always there. He was barely aware when his 
associates started asking him questions.

"Is the ambassador prepared for our influence?" one asked.

"Yes," Morden replied, only half aware. "I think he's ready."

"Will he resist, do you think?"

"No," Morden said.

"Is he suspicious?"

"No," he said again, "he suspects nothing. When the time is right, Ambassador 
Mollari will do exactly as we wish." He grinned. "Destiny is on our side," he 
said, quoting his associates themselves.

"Yes," they whispered.

Morden took a deep breath. The pain was shelved. He could live with himself, 
with the uncertainty. He had lived with enough, these past years, he could live 
with more.

They were still watching him. He glanced from one of the shadowy forms to the 
other. "What..."

"We checked the records, the transport lists for departures from the base," one 
said.

"That... woman... was not on any of them," the second concluded.

Morden sat back heavily. Not... on... dear God.

"No," he whispered.

"She was most likely destroyed with the base."

"No," he said again. He felt pain like a knife in the gut. "No! She couldn't... 
I..." Suddenly, he couldn't speak. The images were pounding into his brain. 
Alana smiling as she said good-bye for the last time. Visions of spiderlike 
ships, firing on the base, vaporizing it. Visions of Alana, looking up from her 
work to a rub-red light, the beam tearing her apart before she could scream...

"NO!" He yelled. "No, I couldn't... I did... all my fault..."

It was all his fault. She was dead, and it was all his fault. His order, his 
choice, his decision... he heard echoes of himself saying, "Destroy it. 
Eliminate it. Wipe it off the map! Blow it up!"

They were silent, watching. He turned to them, anguish written in every 
movement. "Why?" he cried. "Why did it have to happen? Why was there no other 
way? Why couldn't you just let this damn universe be and play your games 
somewhere else?" He was angry, now, filled with a fury that he couldn't 
describe. Damn it, it had been his order, but it was their war and their cause 
and their fault -- *his* fault -- their fight.

"It must be this way," one of the shadows said.

"Why?" He said again. "Why couldn't you just hold off? There were military 
personnel there, yes, but what about- what about..." he couldn't go on. "Why?" 
he whispered.

The temperature in the air seemed to drop. "Are you truly devoted to our 
cause?" one whispered.

"I'm working for you," Morden hissed. "You had my answer on Z'ha'dum, and it's 
the same answer now."

There was a long pause. "Your mind does not agree with your words," the second 
one said.

"Your emotions are blinding you to the necessity of our actions," the first 
continued.

"The necessity? What necessity? You destroyed- you killed..." Morden trailed 
off. The shadows in the room were deepening, crawling from the corners.

"Your emotions are making you useless," a third 'voice' hissed. "We have no 
choice in *this* matter, either. The cause is more important than your... 
frustrated lust."

His scream was cut off as his world turned to black.

Morden came to, the blackness dissolving into light, sound. He was looking at 
his quarters from floor level. Slowly, he sat up. "What..." he asked.

"You were ill," one of his associates said. "We needed to help you. Your 
memories will come back in a moment."

"Yes," he said, remembering. There had been dizzy spells, and they had said 
they could help. He had trusted them- they needed him, didn't they?

"Right," he said, getting to his feet. There was something in his pocket. 
Frowning, he drew it out.

It was a cylinder, a coiled spring made out of plastic. Frowning, he shifted it 
between his palms. Its surface was a flat, even black.

Shrugging, Morden sat the Slinky on the desk and forgot about it. There were 
more important things to do than figure out a mystery.

Shadows moved in the darkness, watching.