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an air lock, and in a few moments the outer door opened to reveal the dust-swept surface of Z'ha'dum.

He had lost his chance to warn John away.

They climbed down some steps, and Galen noticed the vessel they came from was not the White Star. As he'd expected, it was a small shuttle. John's plan was ruined, though he did not know it.

Galen conjured a fireball, studied the small space in which he was entombed. There was a gap between the ceiling and the rocks on one side. He could squeeze through, which would be the quietest way to proceed. He stood, crouching, and stumbled over the rocks, his balance unsure.

He would reach John, get John to his ship, program its course for Babylon 5. With luck, the Eye would allow his ship to pass.

His ship.

Before he even tried to associate with it, he knew it was gone. He felt the absence, a thin sliver of pain behind his forehead, barely perceptible among the rest. He had directed it to destroy itself if it did not hear from him in twenty-four hours.

He cast the spell. There was no echo from the tech, no echo from the ship.

John's shuttle would have no chance of getting past the Eye. The other ships he'd seen were either the short-range shuttles of visitors, or Shadow ships that would obey only the Eye.

He pushed through the narrow opening, his head and neck throbbing. The rocks on the far side were unstable; as they shifted he slid down, skidded to the tunnel floor.

There was no way off the planet for John, or for anyone.

He climbed to his feet, but he had no direction. He simply stood in the close, dank tunnel, the sound of his breaths echoing back to him.

He could not lose control; he could not.

Would he hold to his task, though, while the Shadows killed John and continued their atrocities and
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