could be released, promise realized. He must kill all who could be killed, because they were not fit. He must fight, must destroy, must win. For the greatest joy was the ecstasy of victory.
Amidst the new web that was forming, Wierden was a fading body of yellow, discarded, detached-a fleck of weakness in his brilliant, pulsing body. Somehow, he knew: She was dying.
That was why he had been drawn here. To replace her. To run the Shadows' great machine.
It was so beautiful, so elegant. Perfect grace, perfect control, form and function integrated into the circuitry of the unbroken loop, the closed universe. All systems of the machine passed through him. He was its heart; he was its brain; he was the machine. He kept the machine people working in harmony. He synchronized the cleansing and circulation in sublime synergy. He beat out a flawless march with the complex, multileveled systems. The machine people were his flesh; the fingers of stone stretching up through the planet were his bones. He and the machine were one: the great heart of chaos and destruction.
Burning with his dazzling, jaundiced light, he rejoiced in his strength, and in the inevitable downfall of the Vorlons and all who stood with them. The hate echoed back to him, the echoes now a multitude, propagating within the system, his energy surging, blazing, raging.
He wanted to destroy. Destruction was the one thing at which he excelled. In fact, he had come here to destroy... something. What was it? If only he could remember, he could begin the destruction.
He searched for his mind-focusing exercises, found them still there, among the thousands of pieces of information flowing through him. He drew toward them, to that part of himself squeezed in the grip of control, progressing through the orderly