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bathroom, and the whole thing was lit by a powerglobe, putting out its even, shadowless glow.
    Sheridan threw himself onto the bed, boots and all. “Dim,” he said, and the powerglobe turned the room to dusk.
    He could think of a dozen things he ought to do before going to sleep. Paramount among them were taking off his boots, undressing, taking a shower. But he was too tired to do any of them. He couldn’t remember when he’d last felt such a bone-deep fatigue.
    He lay there on the bed, looking at the pastel ceiling, thinking vague thoughts, and sleep came to him. With it came a dream. Or was it a dream?
    He was standing on rocky, uneven ground, and it was dark. A wind was blowing, and he could feel a gritty dust in the air. The area was fitfully illuminated by fires burning in the immense landscape that stretched around him on all sides.
    Everything was lava and scorched rock. There wasn’t a tree or any green thing in sight. Turning, he saw, at a distance, the ruined crater of a city silhouetted black against the charcoal-gray sky. Fires were burning in the city, too, and columns of smoke rose into the sky.
    He sensed that this was what his recent dreams had been about. But this time, he knew he would remember.
    Sheridan could also sense that this had once been a beautiful place. Even in ruins, the city showed signs of a former nobility. Even at this distance, he could see there were minarets and spires lying in the streets like the bodies of fallen giants, and they were mixed with the remains of a classical, unearthly sculpture, giant heads and torsos lying in the rubble-choked streets. This had been a place devoted to the arts.
    Lightning flashed in the sky, double and triple forked, revealing a devastated landscape as far as the eye could see. Sheridan didn’t need a guided tour to know that all this world was dead, ravaged, bereft of life, even vegetable life, even algae. Somehow, he knew. Something or someone had really done a job on this world, devouring the forests, drying up the seas, sweeping away the cities and other Human habitations.
    He turned slowly, looking at all this in sorrow and slowly mounting anger. And at the same time he was wondering, Where the hell am I? What’s going on here?
    As if in answer to his thoughts, a voice came out of the darkness and said, “Do you hear that?” Sheridan turned quickly in the direction of the voice. He could just make out a robed figure squatting on the ground beside the cliff face. The man’s face was concealed behind a hood. He was bent over, scratching on the ground with a stick.
    “Who the hell are you?” Sheridan demanded.
    “I am called Galen,” he answered. Then, “Do you hear it?”
    “Hear what?”
    “Listen,” Galen said.
    “I don’t hear anything,” Sheridan said.
    “Exactly. No birds, no animals, no machines, no voices. And no insects, or starships, or music. Only the wind. You are hearing the sound of a dead world. A murdered world.”
    “Was there an attack?” Sheridan asked.
    “Nothing so grand as that. It was a test. Can you imagine that? All this, just for a test!” Sheridan shook his head slowly. What in hell was going on? He was aboard Excalibur . He was asleep!
    He shook his head slowly. “This is a dream.”
    “No,” Galen said. “Not a dream. A nightmare. And if sometimes dreams come true, then what of our nightmares?”
    “Who are you?” Sheridan asked.
    “A friend. I called to you earlier.” Galen pushed back his cowl, revealing a square, good-looking face with strong features. He was dark-eyed, hairless save for his brows, and he had the disciplined look of a monk or acolyte. His face at present showed concern, but Sheridan thought he could see the possibilities of a sly humor beneath that.
    With a hint of embarrassment, Galen said, “That message from Delenn... that was me. I apologize for the deception. But a connection was necessary for the electron incantation.”
    Before Sheridan could speak, he heard a