on idiotic criteria like skin color or religion. This is real. You can read my mind, I can't read yours. It's too hard for you not to take advantage of that, and too hard for me not to envy and fear you. We can deny it, suppress it, but it'll always come back. Always. So no, I don't think you're crazy. I hope you find a Homeworld, and I hope it's far away, and I hope you stay the hell there until we all get better somehow."
"But you don't think it'll happen."
"Which? I don't think people have gotten any better since the stone age, and I don't see it happening any time soon. And as for a Homeworld," he pushed his chin at the viewport, "there's a lot of unclaimed worlds where we're going, right? Now that the Vorlons are gone."
"If they are gone."
"What do you mean?"
"Since we started this trip, I've been feeling something. Something familiar."
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Well this is about them, right? This whole thing?"
"In a sense. The Vorlons created us - created telepaths."
"I know. I was there, remember, when Byron went off the deep end, tried to blackmail the InterStellar Alliance, held all of us somehow accountable for what the collective Kosh's did? That's not the big secret I'm supposed to keep, is it?"
"No. But there was more. When Byron found out ..." she suddenly, unaccountably blushed, and stopped, only to begin again, speaking more quickly. "Like you said, when he found out, he reacted badly. But you don't know how it feels, Michael, to suddenly realize that your entire existence was contrived, that you are nothing but a tool."
Garibaldi rolled his eyes. "Lyta, Bester programmed me to turn one of my best friends over to be tortured and killed. Are you really gonna tell me that's somehow less immediate than knowing your