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places, the cloudy brilliance on the far side of the barrier was clearing, revealing shadowy silhouettes that took on color, substance.

She saw many people, many places. Each remained a short time, then faded away. She didn't "remember" any of them, as she remembered her experiences with the machine. Yet she studied each as it came to her.

John Sheridan stood on a beach, talking to her. He pointed farther down the coast, to a tower. Light flashed from the tower, then turned away. The light scanned the area around the tower, just as the Eye scanned the area around Z'ha'dum. It was called a lighthouse, she somehow knew. Short, sand-colored hair blowing over his face, John Sheridan smiled at her.

She was in a dark room filled with books, papers, primitive machinery, strange items. She studied a small, elliptical object that sat on her desk in a circle of light. Anna recognized it as a machine of the liberators. The skin covering it was dull, inactive.

She was lying beside John Sheridan in a bed. He was talking, and she rested her head on his chest.

A man sat propped against a cave wall. It was dark, a single light glaring off the breather covering his face. He wore an orange jumpsuit. There was a burn mark on one arm.

Piece followed upon piece, yet they were not her memories. They carried no emotion or import. They were simply bits of information that had been retrieved from storage. And they were incomplete, fractured, out of context. She didn't understand them.

When the treatment was complete, Justin helped her to sit up on the couch and questioned her about what she remembered. Again he frowned at the results.

"Where were you born?" Justin asked.

She didn't know.

"What is your profession?"

Still, she didn't know.

"Why did you marry John?
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