Timov really hated politicking. It was all such a waste of energy.

She found her husband in his study, as usual. Surprisingly he was not drunk – at least, he didn’t look drunk. He was working on various papers, and muttering angrily under his breath. Timov slowly crept up behind him, making as little movement as she could. Londo really should learn to watch his ba…

Londo spun around, holding a marrago sword. He stopped himself in time, but it was still held closely at her throat. She looked at him carefully.

“You can put that away, Londo,” she said, manufacturing a tone of weariness, but secretly enjoying this. Annoying Londo was so much more fun than politics.

“Bah! Timov, never do that again,” he spat.

“Getting a little paranoid, are we? A little… nervous?”

“No. Why should I be?”

Timov thought about bringing up the matter a few weeks ago of the poisoned gas in his carriage, but she decided against it. That was not something she was supposed to know.

“Oh, no reason. A real assassin would have struck from a distance, though, Londo. That… paperknife of yours would have been little defence.”

“It is a marrago, wielded by one of the Cora Predo – the Proud Knives. It was given to me by my good friend – my good, dead friend, Urza Jaddo – when he became First Minister, Timov. Treat it with respect, the same respect you consistently fail to display to me.”

Timov sighed. It was a large knife, that was all. Why did men set such store by lumps of metal? All that talk about honour and duty and duelling societies… all foolishness.

“Did you come by for a reason, Timov? Or were you just planning on annoying me again?”

“Well actually I did have some information that Emperor Marrit is going to announce his engagement to Lady Elrisia within a few days, but if you’d prefer that I kept it to myself… Why, Londo – are you all right? You look quite… upset.”

“Upset!” he roared. “What is that idiot up to now?”

“He is the Emperor you know. He deserves some respect, at least.”

“Then what is His Idiotic Majesty up to now?! He cannot marry her. She is already married, for one thing.”

“The Emperor can dissolve a marriage at any time, Londo. You should know that. You’ve threatened me with it often enough.”

“It’s insane, is what it is.”

“The Emperor is always right, Londo. Is that not so?”

“That… is our tradition, yes. Ah, Great Maker! What have I done to deserve this?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Timov replied. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to call a doctor…?”

“Quite sure, Timov. Now go away and leave me to contemplate this… insanity.”

“Of course, Londo dear. It would be my pleasure.” Timov glided towards the door, slyly watching as Londo rose from his seat and made an immediate beeline for the drinks cabinet. Picking out a bottle of brivare, he poured himself a glass.

“Oh, by the way, Londo,” Timov said. “I also received a message from the Royal Court. They would have told you, but I knew you were far too busy. Lady Morella will be coming here tomorrow. She wishes an audience with you. Londo? Are you sure you’re all right?”

Londo dropped his drink.

Almost as long as he could remember, Boggs had wanted to serve Earth. It was the one thing he had to believe in. He certainly couldn’t believe in his mother – an enigma from birth. Not even a name to remember her by. Not that he ever wanted to. He couldn’t believe in his father, either. A failure, never achieving the dreams he wanted, and wallowing in his own self-pity for not trying. Boggs had lived a quiet childhood and, as soon as he was old enough, he joined Earthforce.

He had joined as a Gropo – a Marine, a Ground Pounder. He had obeyed their rules, followed their advice, made all the right choices. He had something to believe in. He believed in Earth. He believed he was doing the right thing. He believed he could make a difference.

And then had come the Minbari.

He had fought them in a number of engagements in the early stages of the war, but none was very serious. Mostly it was a space war, with little ground combat. And mostly, Earth was getting its butt kicked, and hard.

He had been stationed on Io when Earth had been destroyed. He couldn’t leave, as all available ships were being thrown up in a ring around Earth, and so he was left kicking his heels around the spaceport while every living thing on Earth was torn from existence.

He had similarly missed the Battle of Mars. Humanity’s first colony had also been destroyed, but the Minbari had taken some damage, thanks mainly to the heroic – some said suicidal – actions of Captain John Sheridan. Boggs had idolised Sheridan. He was a hero. He fought and killed for Earth. He gave hope to humanity.

Not enough hope, as it turned out.

Io had fallen in a matter of hours, but the colony and spaceport had not been destroyed, but occupied. Why, he didn’t know. Who could fathom the Minbari out? He certainly didn’t know about the discovery of a Shadow vessel under the ground of Mars, or about a similar discovery on Ganymede, and he wouldn’t have cared if he had.

He had fought a holding action in the occupied colony for months, giving ground where he had to, holding it where he could. There were a few of them, all the others Gropos like him. They had all died, only Boggs had managed to escape.

He had made his way, in pain, in grief and in anger, to Orion, and from there to Proxima 3. His knowledge of the Minbari made him valuable to the Resistance Government, but his experiences on Io had made it impossible for him to fight again. He remembered their black robes, and their long metal sticks and their contemptuous, superior gazes… He remembered them all when he woke screaming in the middle of the night.

No, Boggs couldn’t fight again, but there were other jobs, things he could do. None of them felt right. None of them was as important to him as being a Gropo, but at least in the Security Forces he could do something. Mr. Welles seemed to trust him, occasionally giving him important tasks.

One such important task had been the breaking of Satai Delenn. Her resistance to Welles’ questioning and Miss Alexander’s telepathic scans had been too strong, and so Welles had wanted her… hurt a little. Not much, and certainly not fatally, but a little.

He had enjoyed that, but he was always careful not to take it too far. Cutter had done little, and said little, but Boggs remembered every punch and every kick and every voice in his mind that screamed at him to kill her.

And then Satai Delenn had escaped, mysteriously changed – twisted into some perverse semblance of humanity. And even worse… Captain Sheridan had helped her. Boggs had felt his dreams turn to ashes. No one was perfect. Not even a hero like Sheridan. Underneath, everyone was scum.

He had a task to do now. It wasn’t important, and it wasn’t especially enjoyable. Cutter would have enjoyed this. Cutter would really have enjoyed this.

But Cutter was dead, and so Boggs was doing this for him.

He raised his fist and drove it hard into the woman’s stomach. She gasped and fell back against the wall. She was bruised and marked and scratched, and she lay there huddled, trying not to cry, trying simply to breathe.

Sheridan had betrayed him and countless more like him. Sheridan was not here, but Lyta Alexander was. In a similar way, Lyta Alexander had betrayed him as well.

She had been given sleeper drugs to restrain her telepathic powers. It surprised him. He had always seen telepaths in a strange light – half freaks of nature, half mystical gods. It was strange. All it took was a simple injection and they were just normal people. Just scum like everyone else.

She tried to rise, but he kicked her feet out from under her. She fell hard.

“Where…?” she breathed. “Where’s… Marcus?”