passed into the next, and the next. How long would it take Elizar to compose the response?
Then he felt the rush of bubbles, and the string shot past him. He reached out, visualized his hands closing about it. It yanked him up and out, whisking him through chaotic rock into dusty air, and then into space. The darkness curled around him.
As he raced back down the dark tunnel, he felt himself fading again, growing tired as his body, back in the air shaft, failed from lack of oxygen. One of his hands slipped from the string. He jerked it back up, but the effort of holding on seemed suddenly monumental.
Beneath his grasp, the message whispered like a dream. If Galen meant for the Centauri to die, then he would be dead. You have been deceived. Galen wanted you to contact me. That is why we are having this conversation. I don't know how, but he is using you to find me.
But let him come to me, if he dares. I am ready. I'm afraid, though, that you may not be. As soon as Galen locates me, he will be finished with you. And while he might let the Centauri live, I doubt he is of a mind to show mercy to you.
The blackness unfolded and he shot down through the layers of Babylon 5, into the shaft, into his body. He released the string, and the bubbling currents of his blood enfolded him in their thick warmth. He wanted to rest there; he had never been so tired. Yet something made him think of Morden-it was time, finally, to kill Morden, and that thought moved him to continue.
He dissolved the equation, and his body fell upon him, a heavy, dead weight, needing something, burning for something. With a tight, wheezing gasp he sucked in air.
Chest heaving, body shaking, he grabbed up the plasma gun, turned his head away, and fired point-blank at the vent. A jolt threw