A Dark, Distorted Mirror. Volume 4. A Future, Born in Pain addm-4

by Gareth D. Williams

  "You have a plan?"

  "Indeed I do. We will go to Kazomi Seven."

  5. Z'ha'dum, The Rim of Known Space, date unascertainable.

  "She's coming."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes. I can.... feel her."

  "Hmm." David Sheridan paused in thought, looking at his companion. He felt distinctly ill-at-ease in such company, but he tried not to show it. He had a lifetime's experience of being in the company of aliens, but it was hard to look at Neroon and feel anything but hatred. He was Minbari, and warrior caste Minbari as well. It had been people like him who had destroyed Earth and everything in it.

  But that was in the past. Neroon was.... not the same person he had been then. He was changed. It was remarkable what a little.... engineering could do.

  For the most part, Sheridan did not even care about the Minbari any more. They were no threat to humanity now — they were fractured, divided, torn, practically at civil war. And after what had been done to Minbar, they knew what it was like to lose their home. Vengeance had been achieved, justice had been served.

  If anyone were to ask him why he was continuing with the path he had begun so long before, he would have three answers for them.

  To protect humanity. Not from the Minbari, for they were no danger now, but from everyone. From the Vorlons, the Alliance, Sinoval.... Humanity had, through no fault of its own, become involved in a war millennia older than itself, and someone had to keep the people safe. It might as well be him.

  To free his son. John was trapped in this, by the Vorlons, by.... her, by all of them. He had chosen wrongly, yes, but he was the only living being to share his blood. He could forgive his prodigal son almost anything. He had to.

  To.... The third reason was one he could not explain or give voice to. It simply was.... And it was her. Perhaps his obsession was born out of the last vestiges of desire for revenge, or maybe it was to do with his desire to protect John.

  Whatever, he had invited her here before, during his genuine hopes of peace with the Alliance. She had refused, both his offer and the peace with the Shadows. Whatever deaths came about from this war were now on her head.

  And now she was coming here. Neroon certainly seemed to think so, and he was.... unlikely to be wrong about something like this. There had been a time when he had known her very well.

  "Well," he said finally. "I should tell our.... associates."

  "They already know," whispered a harsh voice, a third voice. Sheridan looked at Susan Ivanova, his predecessor at Proxima 3, and sighed. He had been unsure of what to do with her. Their gambit at Epsilon 3 had failed, and she was unfit for anything else. She had apparently spent most of her time on Kazomi 7 asleep or delirious, and since he had arranged for her release to Z'ha'dum during the peace negotiations he had seen little evidence of any improvement in her condition.

  Still, the Shadows seemed to want her. They undoubtedly believed there was still some use for her, although he could not think of one.

  He paused, and realised he was being unfair. The failure on Epsilon 3 had been out of her hands, and she had done well, for the most part, as Ambassador to Proxima. She had only failed once, but it had been a colossal failure that he still had not been able to resolve.

  She looked up at him, and he caught the full range of emotions in her eyes. Anger, fear, remorse, disgust.... acceptance. "They already know."

  "But why is she coming?" he asked, speaking largely to himself. There was little chance of a coherent answer from either of his companions. She must know that this was a futile mission, and that she would not leave here alive. He had always prided himself on being a good judge of character, but this time his skills were failing him.

  "Why?"

  "To kill you," whispered Ivanova. "She's coming to kill you all."

  6. Sanctuary, hidden Psi Corps base, January 4th 2261.

  At last, the Shadows had come to Sanctuary.

  Alfred Bester had been expecting this for many months. Ever since he had made a desperate gambit to seize control of the Great Machine of Epsilon 3, betraying the Resistance Government, the Shadows and G'Kar in the process, he had been expecting retribution. It had been inevitable.

  And now it was here.

  Fortunately he had had time to make preparations. But even he felt a chill as he looked at the ships approaching his station. There were a great many of them, more than he had been expecting. He supposed they would have to be sure. He was a telepath after all, as were most of those who followed him. The Shadow ships were vulnerable to telepathic interference, a fact uncovered by G'Kar in one of the ancient Narn holy texts. He had used this information to begin a deal with Bester, and so had brought the remnants of the Psi Corps into this war.

  And now Bester was taking them out of it. They had all thought Psi Corps destroyed with Earth, but they had all been wrong. The Corps had resources stretching further and wider than anyone realised. Sanctuary was just one such place. The Corps could stay hidden for years, decades, and wait for the time. Oh, they would lose some of their influence and power in the years they hid, but it would not last forever. Nothing would be lost that could not be regained.

  The Corps was mother, the Corps was father, and Alfred Bester was the Corps.

  The Shadows bore down on Sanctuary, surrounding it completely. Bester watched, and recognised the strategy. They would undoubtedly prefer to take the station if at all possible. There were a great many resources available on board, and the Shadows needed telepaths of their own for their ships.

  He would not let that happen to his people.

  A message was sent to Sanctuary. He did not bother listening to it. There was no point.

  With the press of a button an explosion ripped through the station, and the entire structure was consumed by fire. Shards of debris were blown outwards, tearing into the ships. Hopefully, some of them had been close enough to be damaged or even destroyed, although Bester had few illusions as to the strength of the Shadow vessels.

  He turned away from the screen that showed Sanctuary's destruction. The station had become important to him over the past few years, almost a home. But any tool that cannot be discarded if necessary is not a tool, but a trap.

  From its safe point in hyperspace, the Ozymandias watched the destruction.

  "Our probes picked their approach up easily enough," said his companion, and, strangely enough for a mundane, his friend. "We got out almost everything we hadn't already moved elsewhere."

  Bester nodded.

  "So.... what now?"

  "Now, Captain?" He turned to look at Captain Ari Ben Zayn. "Now we wait. We sit back, and we wait. Let our enemies tear themselves apart. We can always come out and pick up the pieces, whether it takes us a year, or a century.

  "The galaxy hasn't heard the last of us yet."

  7. The Emperor's Personal Quarters, the Royal Court, Centauri Prime, January 4th 2261.

  Emperor of the Centauri Republic was seldom seen as a job with much of a future, especially these days. The last two incumbents had been assassinated, with the last one, Emperor Refa, having sat on the Purple Throne for less than two days.

  Londo Mollari had few illusions as to his chances for long-term survival. Oh, matters had certainly improved in the half-a-year since he had taken the throne, but to say all was perfect would be blatantly untrue.

  The Emperor, as it had been said in an old poem, sat alone, far beyond the reach of those who could only cower at his feet. It had been meant as a compliment, feeding the vanity of those who saw themselves as Gods. Londo recognised it for what it was: a curse. He was alone, and would be alone for the rest of his life.

  But still, he had friends, a few at least. There were Marrago and Durano, whose loyalty and friendship towards him were matched only by their growing hatred of each other. There was Timov, dear, dear Timov. There was Lennier....

  And there were a few others who could not be with him now, burdened as they were by their own concerns. Delenn sprang to mi
nd, and he wondered how she was doing. He had heard very little of outside events since he had returned to Centauri Prime over a year ago. He had heard about the bombardment of Minbar and about a great battle at Epsilon 3, but nothing else.

  It was time to end that. It was time to take the Centauri Republic back to the thrones and parliaments of the galaxy. They had waited, on Marrago's advice, determined to go to the Alliance and the others as equal partners, rather than on bended knee. Now, thanks to their victory, they could do that. Marrago's luck had certainly improved since the last time he and Londo had gambled together: he could hardly believe the ease of their victory. He must have pulled off one of his legendary miracles.

  Londo was no soldier, and he was very glad of it. Leave that to Marrago and Carn and the others. His mind was on diplomacy and long-term planning. First, bring the Republic back to the notice of the great powers of the galaxy, the Alliance in particular. Secondly, seek some sort of accommodation with the Alliance, and begin working on a peace treaty with the Narns. There were more important concerns now than their rivalry. Third....

  He nodded to his guards as he strolled past them into his private quarters. He had been ambling idly through the palace for hours, musing on things past and things present and things better. His security had been well attended to.

  He paused and looked up as he entered the room. There was someone here, seated beside his bed. In the shadows he could not see who it was, although he was sure he knew this person. He raised his light globe. "Who is there?" he asked.

  "I realise it has been a long time," said a familiar voice, and Londo found himself smiling, "but I would like to think you would remember me. Unless of course you have no time for your old friends now that you have risen to such high office."

  "G'Kar!" he laughed, as the Narn stepped forward and bowed.

  "Indeed, Mollari. I thought it past time to pay you a personal visit. We have a great deal to talk about."

  8. Tarolin 2, January 5th 2261.

  Kats sat alone, trapped in a prison of her own making, torn apart from the two constants in her life this past year. She had never felt such pain as she felt now: the pain of betrayal, of loss, of sorrow.

  She was alone.

  Sinoval had departed the day before, having made arrangements for the running of his demesne in his absence. He had spoken to Durhan, he had arranged for some of the Soul Hunters to remain behind.... and then he had come to her.

  It had been the first time they had spoken since he had brought her the news of Kozorr's betrayal. Nothing had been right between them since then. Actually, nothing had been right since Kozorr's 'death' here at Tarolin 2. She had once claimed to be his conscience, his angel, his wisdom. She had been acutely aware of the position to which she had been raised, and she had resolved not to abuse it. But how could she wield any power when she barely had the power to help herself?

  She had listened to his intentions carefully, making no comment. She was his conscience, but she could not bring herself to advise on his course of action. She could see the anger growing behind his dark eyes: he had once said she was the only person who could read him at all.

  She could see the darkness that was threatening to engulf the hope of the Minbari people, and yet she had said nothing.

  He was going to Kazomi 7. He was going to speak to the leaders of all the races in this war, and try to warn them about the Vorlons, if that could be done. And if that was not possible, then he might be forced to do something else. She thought she could sense the dark plan forming in his mind, but she could not give voice to her fears. She could hardly hope to criticise him, when she had so much to criticise in herself.

  He had given his traditional blessing as he had left. "Be at peace, my lady, and be happy." She had said nothing, unable even to find the words.

  And now he was gone, and she was alone. Kozorr was gone, and she was alone.

  The door opened, and she looked up. She was supposed to be meditating, but that had been growing more and more difficult of late. Most people knew of the times set aside for her privacy and respected them, except in dire emergency.

  The new arrival was a warrior, who wore Sinoval's personal crest. She was one of the new order then, one of those who had cast aside old clans and old loyalties, and taken to calling themselves the Primarch's Blades. Trained and commanded personally by Sech Durhan — at least since Kozorr's 'death' - they were fanatically loyal to Sinoval, and deeply respectful to those they saw as his friends, of which she was one.

  The warrior knelt formally, stretching her pike out towards Kats in a time-honoured gesture of loyalty and submission. Kats never failed to be puzzled by this. She could still remember the days when such people would have openly spit on her in the street, and Kalain's genocide of the worker caste had ended less than two years ago.

  "There is someone here to see you, my lady," the warrior said, using the worker caste language instead of the warrior dialect. Another sign of respect. "She says she is known to you, and she claims to have a message for the Primarch."

  "Who is it?" Kats asked softly.

  "She has given us the name Sherann."

  "That's impossible," Kats breathed softly. "Show her in."

  The warrior nodded and rose, heading for the door. Kats rose as well, following her softly. This was impossible. All word had been that Sherann had been killed in the massacres, one of the countless victims of Kalain's purging of the worker caste.

  But at the first sight of her in the doorway, Kats knew it was her cousin. She stepped forward, hardly daring to believe it. "It is you," she whispered. "Sherann.... how...?"

  "Give your message," said the warrior, looking at her. It was clear that whatever respect was allotted to Kats did not extend to Sherann.

  "I need to speak to Sino...." Sherann checked herself. "I need to speak to the Primarch."

  "He's not here," Kats said softly. She could read the fear in her cousin's eyes. "Sherann, how.... how did you get here?"

  "I escaped," she whispered. "I managed to escape from Minbar. From them. I need to get help from.... the Primarch. Without him.... if he doesn't come.... we're all going to die. Everyone on Minbar.... we're all going to die."

  9. The Security Headquarters, Sector 301, a. k. a. the Pit, Proxima 3, January 5th 2261.

  There had been a time, once, when he had believed in the uniform he now wore. He had believed in Earthforce, in duty and glory and honour and all the things that had been thrown at him when he joined up.

  Not any more. Zack Allan believed in very little of anything these days. He had developed one creed that was serving him very well at the moment. Keep your head down, don't cause any fuss, and just get by as best you can.

  It had been quite a slide, from Chief Security Officer of the pride of humanity's space fleet — okay, the entirety of humanity's space fleet being one ship — to the Chief of the most worthless, corrupt and generally irredeemable area on Proxima. He had tried to fight it at one point, but he had eventually just given up. Fighting got you nowhere.

  That was a policy he had instituted in the last eight months since he had taken over Sector 301. His predecessor had been mildly corrupt, a little idealistic but generally too old and inept to do anything about any of the major problems in the sector. He had retired on full pension, and Main Dome had apparently wanted someone younger, someone with the drive and energy to take on the corruption and the syndicates and the general decay.

  An impossible aim, as they soon realised, and instead they had shunted Zack here, hoping no doubt to keep him from revealing too much about his time on the Babylon, especially concerning the activities of a certain Captain John Sheridan.

  On his first day in office Zack had been approached by Mr. Trace, local businessman, owner of the Tron nightclub and all-round mafioso. Trace explained how 301 had worked under Zack's predecessor, and how it could carry on working exactly the same way. Zack had listened to him patiently.

  There had been a time when Zack would ha
ve arrested the businessman for attempting to bribe a public officer, and made a concerted effort to shut Trace down for good. But that had been a while back.... when he had still believed.

  Besides, he now knew just how difficult that would have been. Trace had some major-league backing from Main Dome and the MegaCorps. He was carrying out certain.... unspecified 'services' for some pretty high-up people. Zack didn't know who or what, and he didn't care. He was paid quite handsomely, he got to indulge his fondness for a generally peaceful life, there was no one from Main Dome bothering him, and he could turn a blind eye to anything unpleasant.

  And if there were times, usually very early in the morning, when he realised what he had become and despised himself.... well, a glass or six of whisky or a shot of Storm soon put those feelings right.

  Dreams of idealism, of hope, of duty had died in Zack Allan a long time ago. All he wanted now was an easy life, and a sector free from troublemakers. Usually, 301 didn't bring up much to trouble him. Oh, every so often you got some new gang lord coming in to try to take things over, but Trace and his backers soon put paid to them. There were occasional mutterings from up-sector about 'urban renovation' or 'reconstruction projects' but none of them ever came to anything.

  All in all, his life had been pretty quiet lately.

  Until recently. There were two troublemakers in 301 and they were already disrupting his life simply by being here. Captain Dexter Smith, Zack's former superior aboard the Babylon, had taken up residence here for some reason, and seemed to be trying to make Mr. Trace's life very difficult.

  And there was some telepath, an infiltrator from somewhere. She was more dangerous, and Trace badly wanted her caught. Smith could just be killed and dumped in some construction site foundations somewhere, but this telepathic woman.... Trace wanted her very much alive.

  There was a puzzle there somewhere, and the old Zack could have worked it out with very little effort. The new Zack did not want to.

  His commscreen beeped, and he checked his watch. Fourteen hundred hours exactly. Say what you liked about Trace. He was always punctual.