A Dark, Distorted Mirror. Volume 5 : Among the Stars, like Giants. Part 3 : On the Edges of Perception addm-5

by Gareth D. Williams

  "Who are you?"

  Who are you?

  We have been over this, Sheridan. You don't know who you are. Look, we have stripped everything away, you and I. All that remains is the darkness, a tiny light, the mirror, and yourself. Shorn of all encumbrances and burdens and duties. Here of all places you can surely know who you are.

  "How can any of us answer that question?"

  Very well, then. Another question. A different one. Who do you want to be?

  "My father," he replied instantly. "I want to be my father."

  The one who joined the Shadows, who allied with them, fought for them, sent countless millions to their deaths in their cause?

  "No. That man was not my father. That man was someone who once had been my father. I want to be my father as he was when I was a child."

  Both men are one and the same, surely. The man you remember became the man who served the Shadows. The man who served the Shadows still had some of the man who poured water on to your roof at night to help you sleep. Which man was real, and which the illusion?

  "They were both real, and whatever he did, he was still my father. I forgave him, at the end."

  After all he did, you still forgive him?

  "Yes."

  You believe in redemption, then? You believe that a man might be forgiven his sins, his errors, whether intentional or not — they can all be forgiven and atoned for? Any man can seek redemption?

  Or any woman?

  "I...."

  Can you be forgiven, Sheridan? The things you did, is there absolution for them?

  "I...."

  You forgave your father. Why not yourself? What is it you have done that you cannot forgive, Sheridan? You killed Minbari, a great many of them, but that was war. You sent people to die in your war, but that was for a greater cause, was it not? You took up arms against your own people, but it was for their own good. You killed your wife on the deck of your own ship, but that was just a misunderstanding. Not your fault at all. You left Delenn and your unborn child on Z'ha'dum, but your instincts told you she was dead, and you did not know she was pregnant, so what blame there?

  What can you not forgive, Sheridan?

  No answer, not for me.... not for yourself. No answer....

  "I.... I can't.... I can't forgive any of...." Sheridan looked up. The mirror was empty. He reached forward to touch it and it shattered at his touch. Behind it lay a small walking stick, topped with silver. He made to pick it up, but it was impossibly hot to his touch.

  "Where are you?" he called. "Where are you?"

  There was no answer.

  * * *

  Senna lay quietly on the bed, staring up at the grey ceiling. The pain in her back had lessened, but it had never really gone away. She doubted it ever would. Still, sometimes she was glad of it. The pain there was physical, easily attributable to something clear and obvious. The other types of pain she was feeling were not so easy to forget.

  They were travelling through hyperspace now. The entire fleet. A group of monsters and traitors and cowards. They were going to attack Centauri Prime.

  Her homeworld.

  Her home.

  And they were being led by the man who should have been defending her people against them.

  Her cheek still stung, her lip was red and bleeding. The blow had taken her completely by surprise, and it had been a very long time before she had stopped shaking. She had not thought he would....

  The sheer anger in his eyes blazed in her mind again and she closed her eyes tightly. If she could not see it, it was not there. That was what her nurse had told her.

  She had lied.

  They were all here now, in the dark. She could feel Rem Lanas' fingers sliding over her skin, hear his voice in his ear. She could feel again the impact of Marrago's fist on her jaw. She could see again those colossal monsters ripping apart her bodyguard with their bare hands and rending the carcass between their teeth. She could see again their master calmly watching, as though they were no more than animals squabbling over a meal.

  And now all the monsters would be free to do it again. More people would be killed, more children left orphaned, more rapes, more torture, more death. More and more. It would never end.

  She could still feel Rem Lanas' hands on her. She had never screamed for him, not once. She had wanted to. The pain in her throat from holding back had built and built until she felt as if she were inhaling fire with every breath.

  She opened her eyes, realising that she was sobbing, her body shaking uncontrollably.

  She rose from the bed and walked to the door, making to open it, but then jumped back as if the handle were red hot. He might be there. He had struck her once. She had thought he was a good man, but he was just like all the others.

  A monster.

  He was leading them to attack Centauri Prime.

  Her homeworld.

  Her home.

  Still sobbing, she threw herself against the door and slid down to the floor. Something caught her eye on the floor and she picked it up slowly.

  It was a knife.

  She rested her head against the door, still sobbing, and placed the knife against the soft skin of her arm.

  It did not hurt. None of the cuts did. Not even when all the blood began to flow from her shoulder, from her stomach, none of it hurt.

  That was good. She had had enough pain in her life already.

  * * *

  It was possible that they all had some presentment of what was to come. Emperor Londo Mollari in his silent slumber. The Lady Consort Timov in her meditations and prayer for her husband's life. Mr. Morden in his quiet writing. The Inquisitors in their never-ending duties.

  Susan Ivanova waiting and whistling on the pinnacle of Cathedral.

  It began with the Tuchanq, armed with their stolen technology, fuelled by hatred directed at a blameless target. Already battered and torn and destroyed from wars without end, Centauri Prime would fall before their vengeance,

  Ship after ship swarmed through jump gates into the space above the planet

  The time for their vengeance had come. To most of them, insane and songless, it did not even matter on whom they wrought that vengeance. All that mattered was blood.

  Oceans and oceans of it.

  To the Brotherhood, all that mattered was plunder, and pain, and riches, and power, and revenge.

  To the Centauri, all that mattered was survival. Again.

  * * *

  Marrago knew how the plan was supposed to go. After all, he had been responsible for devising it. The scouts' reports from Centauri airspace indicated that everything should go even more easily than he had dreamed. The defence grid was barely operational and the ships to defend his homeworld pitifully inadequate.

  He had waited as long as he dared, hoping beyond hope for some communication from Sinoval. He had a plan. It was a good plan. It might work.

  But Marrago needed to be sure everything was ready. There could be no room for any error, not in this.

  He had not heard a thing. The Tuchanq had already begun their attack, heedless of any strategy, careless of any losses. He had seen it in noMir Ru's eyes. A madness that feared nothing, not even death.

  Especially not death.

  "Where are you, Sinoval?" he asked.

  There was no reply.

  Dasouri was trying to contact him. He knew that. They had to leave hyperspace and join the attack.

  "Where are you, Sinoval?!"

  Still no reply.

  Marrago sighed and rose. He would have to go through with it and trust to his friend. Sinoval had created this plan. He would not abandon them.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw a bloodstain on the floor, near the door to Senna's room. That was where he had hit her. The memory still shamed him. He could still feel the impact on his fist and he burned with the memory.

  Had he drawn blood with the blow? He did not remember, but he did not think so. Maybe he had.

  But blood that fresh?
>
  His hearts beating so fast he could scarcely breathe, Marrago opened the door.

  Senna's body fell out, a bloodstained knife hanging loosely in her fingers. Her eyes were open, but there was no sight there. Blood was everywhere, on her hands, her dress, her face, her hair, her mouth.

  So much blood.

  Almost an ocean of it.

  Marrago stared in mute horror, unable to form even a conscious thought.

  "Where are you, Sinoval?" he cried again after a long while. Tears were welling in his eyes.

  Behind him, the Shadow Warrior waited.

  * * *

  Kulomani was half-expecting the message he received, but that did not make it any less disturbing. He had been expecting it ever since the Day of the Dead, ever since his conversation with the former Lord-General Jorah Marrago.

  Kulomani was not stupid. He knew in whose service he had been recruited and he accepted that, knowing the stakes he fought for. To his mind there had been something wrong throughout the war with the Shadows, something he had only been able to conceptualise during the final battle at Z'ha'dum itself. There had been something wrong and now he had the feeling that he was on the side of right again.

  He sat at his command post on the bridge of Babylon 5. What did the humans call it? C and C? At his fingertips rested the entire power of the whole station, and by extension all of the Alliance. Power was a truly terrifying thing sometimes.

  He tried again to contact General Sheridan. Again there was no reply. The General was here, in his quarters. He had taken some time off to rest, claiming he had not been sleeping well. Kulomani did not really grasp the problem there, but he supposed none of his people could. Still, he could not deny that the General had not been looking well. There were dark smudges under his eyes and he spent a lot of time rubbing at his face and drinking that strange black drink he called coffee.

  Still no reply. He ordered a Security squad to General Sheridan's quarters. It could be nothing, but he had a feeling there was something happening. The Alliance fleet at Frallus 12 was mobilising, as was the Dark Star Squadron 17, patrolling the outskirts of Centauri space. With one word from Kulomani they would rush to Centauri Prime and fire the first shots in a new and terrifying war.

  Not Alliance against Shadows. Alliance torn apart against itself. The raiders were a symptom, the first bubble of poison rising from the bottom of the swamp. There would be more. But the war would begin there, on Centauri Prime.

  The Security team reported back.

  Kulomani breathed out and gave instructions for the Alliance fleets to move to Centauri Prime, top priority, and for a medical team to go to General Sheridan's quarters.

  He gave them in that order.

  * * *

  "Sinoval! Where are you?"

  Susan Ivanova called until her throat was hoarse. She ran through the neverending, always-winding pathways of Cathedral until her feet ached and her legs burned with pain.

  It was happening. The Brotherhood had launched their attack. The Centauri ships were being outmatched and overcome. Brotherhood shuttles were already heading for the planet's surface. Centauri Prime was teetering on the brink of one disaster too many.

  And where the hell was Sinoval?

  "Damn you, Sinoval!" Ivanova called out to the empty darkness. She could not even see any of the Soul Hunters, not even the Praetors Tutelary who were always near Sinoval. It was as if Cathedral had died in a split second and she just had not been told yet.

  "Sinoval, if you make me do this by myself, I swear by almighty God I'll...."

  She ran into the training ground without even realising it. He was there, sitting cross-legged as if in meditation, Stormbringer on the floor in front of him. He was staring into nothingness.

  "Damn you!" she cried out. "Didn't you hear me? It's starting!"

  There was no reply.

  She ran up to him and shook him roughly. He did not move. "Sinoval, don't you...." She shook him again. His skin was cold, unbelievably cold. "Sinoval!" She pushed him.

  He fell backwards. His eyes continued to stare up into the darkness.

  Chapter 4

  There are no secrets under the sun.

  There are no hiding places for the shadows.

  There is no time for one last request.

  Those who would betray the light will fall and die, destroyed by their own darkness. Shadows flee when even a single ray of light is cast upon them. One glimpse of the sun and they are gone.

  Turned to dust.

  And soon there is no memory that they ever existed.

  Let those who oppose the light know this: by opposing us, you align yourselves with the shadow.

  Let those who align themselves with the shadow know this:

  There are no secrets under the sun.

  We will find you.

  In a hall of endless mirrors, a place of shadows and light, one voice ringing out from all corners, John Sheridan moved, searching eternally for a way out.

  * * *

  Blood and darkness and wine.

  The feast was continuing in the shadow of his mind. Never-ending joy and merriment and wine and women and, yes, even song.

  No pain. No grief. No loss.

  But as he drank it, he saw for the first time that the wine was not wine, but blood, and the food was not the flesh of animals, but the flesh of his people, and the song was not of rapturous celebration but a dirge for the dead and the dying.

  Go back, the voices said.

  Go back, the song said.

  Go back, the singers said.

  "No," replied Emperor Londo Mollari II. "I am happy here."

  * * *

  If only his people were so happy....

  The Tuchanq attacked with a savage, careless, heedless frenzy. They suicide-rammed the few defence grid satellites still working. They hurled their ships into buildings and lakes. The earth rose and fell.

  They brought their song to the land.

  They sang as they died.

  And where were the others? Where were the defenders of Centauri Prime?

  The First Image:

  Morden closed his eyes in a gesture that might have been prayer or might simply have been a refusal to accept what was happening. There was no fear. Why would he be afraid?

  He was safe in a fortified bunker half a mile under the ground.

  He had been woken up in the middle of the night by an Inquisitor at his bedside. He had been afraid then, for a single moment. The Drazi Inquisitor's ice-cold eyes stared at him, as if looking directly into his soul. Morden knew he had done nothing for which he should be afraid, but the fear was there regardless. He said nothing.

  The Drazi nodded. "Come."

  They had taken him to this place, a secret place they had constructed in quiet, in silence. It was a place of torture, of screams, of agonies born in nightmares. It was also, for now, a place of sanctuary.

  Morden wanted to do something, anything. The Inquisitors had their ships. Surely they were more than a match for any bandit raiders? A message had been sent to the Alliance, but surely there was something to do now?

  "No," the Inquisitor had said, when he had dared broach the subject. "He is here. We must draw him out into the light."

  "He?" Morden had a sickening feeling he knew who. Only one person could inspire that much hatred in an Inquisitor.

  "The Accursed."

  "Sinoval?"

  The Inquisitor's hand had suddenly been at his throat, squeezing tightly. Morden felt all the breath leave his body a second after all the warmth left his soul.

  The Drazi spoke slowly, flawlessly, dwelling on every syllable.

  "You will never speak that name again."

  He had not.

  And so all he had to do was wait.

  The Second Image:

  Durla at her side, Timov looked at the cold, uncomfortable chair in front of her. Durla had been assigned to watch her, although many people might have wondered whether it was for her safety or their
own. Few of them, few of the players in the Great Game, would imagine she was equally capable of watching him back.

  Besides, for now, they had.... an understanding of sorts.

  Londo's bedchamber was well guarded, as many guards as they could spare, but Timov herself had to be here. This was no time to hide. Power had to be wielded and be seen to be wielded, and she could do more here. The Ministers and lords and nobility had fled, some to hide or defend their estates, others to take the fight to the enemy. Timov was alone.

  "They will make for the palace, lady," Durla said. She looked at him. "If they plan to invade and occupy they will need to secure the palace. If they merely desire plunder they will get more of that here than anywhere else. If they desire destruction, what better place to destroy?"

  "I know," Timov said.

  "And you are still here because...?"

  "Someone has to be."

  She looked around. The guards were here. Her men, and Durla's. Anyone Durla had chosen to be here now was obviously very deep in their respective conspiracy. Either that or very skilled.

  "Do you want to be ready for them when they arrive?" she asked, indicating the throne.

  "No, lady," he replied. "Your husband still lives and has not yet abdicated. I am not yet Emperor."

  "It must gall you, Durla. You seek more than anything else to restore us to an era of glory, and merely a handful of days after we set each other on that path, we are attacked and threatened."

  It was one of the very rare occasions she had ever seen true emotion in Durla's face. His eyes sparkled. "My lady," he said simply. "The lower we are, the greater the journey to the top. The greater the challenge, the greater the victory."

  Timov nodded, a chill passing through her. This was a man with no understanding of Centauri life, no knowledge of or care for those who would fall.

  A problem for another day.

  "Well, then," she said primly. "It falls to me."

  She ascended the steps and took the throne. All either of them had to do now was wait.

  The Third Image:

  Moreil spread his arms wide, basking in the joy of righteous chaos.