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and germ warfare. But that incident would be of little interest to her, regardless. What was of far more interest was the fact that she was running out of air, that the chill of space seemed to be working its way into her bones, and her consciousness was hovering on the brink of extinction.

Lyta Alexander could sense her body dying.

She felt the slowing of her heart, the freezing beginning to set in, despite the life pod. She floated in space, stars all around her. They did not twinkle, as they would when viewed from the sort of planetary surface that she was convinced she would never tread again. Instead they simply hung there, hovering, judging her. A million eyes, studying her, assessing her, and finding her unworthy.

Unworthy.

The telepath tried to lick her cracked lips, an exercise in futility since her tongue was swollen and useless. She was breathing in the poison of her own carbon dioxide. The life pod's power was diminishing, the systems shutting down. She could not feel her fingers or toes, and she drifted in and out of consciousness.

She had used a net to tie down her fine, strawberry blonde hair. Somehow the net had slipped off. Her hair floated about her in the nongravity of her survival pod, giving her a vaguely Medu-san appearance as if she sported a nest of spitting serpents on her head. The area within her pod was cramped, and her breath- in addition to killing her slowly with mounting CO2 levels-was misting up the front viewport. Feebly, she wiped the port clear with her sleeve and looked out at the stars once more.

She didn't see stars anymore. She saw Vorlons. Every single star was a Vorlon, still judging her, still finding her wanting.

They are embodiments of light. She had known this ever since she scanned the Vorlon known as Kosh,
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