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

by Gareth D. Williams

  And now they were both going back to Kazomi 7. It had been over a year and a half since either of them had been there, and it must have changed greatly from the barren, devastated world it had been then. A triumph of hope over despair, it had been called.

  It was all G'Kar's fault, of course. He wanted unity. He wanted all the races united to oppose the Shadows. He had been doing a remarkably good job of it as well. If he could get the Centauri to side with the Alliance.... to go to war with a terrifying Enemy....

  To throw away Centauri lives in a cause not their own, to make an enemy who would no doubt be angry and vengeful, to commit themselves to a war with no returning.

  Londo had turned down Mr. Morden's offer of a permanent alliance with the Vorlons for that very reason. Morden's subsequent disappearance (little change there, with him) had not altered his opinion. The Centauri would remain neutral as far as possible.

  "I was thinking about something," he said softly. "Tell me.... have you heard any.... rumours about our victory in the recent battle?" The Narns had assaulted Centauri Prime itself, and been beaten back. Lord-General Marrago had foreseen heavy casualties, but there had been remarkably few.

  "What sort of rumours?"

  "I don't know.... Either the Narns were grossly underprepared for their attack, still believing us to be weak and helpless.... or we had help from somewhere."

  "Centauri Prime had been in a state of chaos for over a year," Lennier replied, after a thoughtful hesitation. "Perhaps they had not heard how much things had changed."

  "Perhaps.... Perhaps they did underestimate us. Or maybe we were helped. I have heard.... rumours that another force intervened. Who, or what, or why, I do not know, and I do not even know if there is any truth in this. Was Mr. Morden trying to force his offer of alliance onto us? Were these.... Shadows playing some game of their own, hoping to push us into a deal with them?"

  "I will listen," Lennier said simply. "If I hear anything, I will tell you."

  "Thank you," said the Emperor softly.

  He wished there was someone here he could talk to.... really talk to. Marrago was on Centauri Prime of course, plotting the move to retake the Gorash system. Timov was busily terrifying people in her guise as Minister for Resource Procurement. G'Kar had slipped away from the homeworld in the same mysterious way he had slipped in. Delenn would be at Kazomi 7. Carn was captaining the Valerius.

  Ah, how he wished for someone to talk to. Someone to see Londo Mollari the man, not the second Emperor Mollari, not the man who would lead the Republic into its dying days.

  Londo remembered Cartagia's final prophecy, his final, black joke. He had sworn to deny Cartagia that last laugh. He remembered the cause Malachi had died for, and his own oath to uphold it. He remembered Lord Jarno going to his death.

  Then he remembered sitting in that damned uncomfortable chair, and he decided that he was happy here for the moment. Kazomi 7 was some hours away, and when he arrived there he would have to sit through all the speeches, all the waffle, all the politicking. Then he would have to leave and return to Centauri Prime for more of the same.

  He spent the remaining five hours until his arrival at Kazomi 7 doing precisely nothing whatsoever.

  * * *

  "So why do they call him Jinxo, then?"

  The principle reason for frequenting any pub, Dexter Smith had reasoned, was not the drinks they served, nor the politeness of the landlord, nor the length of the barmaids' skirts, nor the cost of the drinks, nor even the propensity for brawls on a Friday night.

  No, it was the regulars. People who came in day after day, night in, night out. Not to drink as such, but just to be there, to enjoy the atmosphere, to talk all night about the things they had done all day, to swap outrageous stories and gossip and news.

  It had been the regular customers that had drawn Smith into the first real pub he had visited, back when he was nowhere near old enough to be able to buy drinks.

  Sadly, while Bo's tavern had a great many.... well, many.... well, some.... features to recommend it, the regulars were not among them. Smith was gloomily realising that he was Bo's regular, because he'd been coming here three or four nights a week for about a month.

  Oh, there were a few others. There was Mack, an old friend of Bo's from his time in Earthforce. Eduardo Delvientos and his brother, both dockers based at the spaceport in Sector 305. A small-scale businessman called Devereaux. Then there was Jinxo. No one seemed to know his real name. No one knew where he lived or what he did. He was just always there, at least he'd been there every time Smith had been. Most of the time he wasn't even drinking anything, just sitting as close to the fire as he could.

  "A funny story," Bo said, polishing some glasses. Well, by polishing, what he was actually doing was evenly distributing the dirt, but it gave him something to do and made him look busy.

  Smith said nothing, and waited for Bo to continue. "He used to be a construction worker. Fairly big, large-scale stuff. A pretty good one, too.... by all accounts. He lived on Orion for a good few years, doing minor repair work and such. Got married there, back in.... ooh, fifty-one, fifty-two, something like that. She got pregnant.

  "I gather things were looking up at one point. The Government was trying to recruit skilled construction workers for some big job. Some space station or something."

  "Babylon Four," Smith said softly.

  Bo appeared not to have heard him. "So, Jinxo was one of the first in line for a job. He went off for some survey reports or something. I think he hung around on the Babylon for a while.... meeting pretty high-class people, you know.

  "And then.... well.... the Minbari came to Orion, completely trashed the place. Jinxo was still on the Babylon when it came back to try and defend Orion, and he was one of the first guys on the ground. He got to his apartment.... and the whole building had been wrecked. His wife was dead, but the doctors managed to save the baby.... something like that, anyway. Maybe his wife lived for a few more days.... or something.

  "Well, it turned out Jinxo's insurance didn't cover anything like the cost of keeping the baby in hospital, and it weren't like that were the only kid in need of treatment after Orion. His apartment weren't worth nothing any more, he wasn't going to get paid by the Government for construction work they couldn't afford, and his savings went.... pretty fast.

  "So, the hospital were making threatening noises, so he took all the cash he had and went down to the Tron. He tried to borrow money off Mr. Trace, but.... well, he couldn't afford to lend him any. I'm sure he would have, if he could. He's a real fine man, as you know."

  "Yeah," muttered Smith. "A real humanitarian."

  "But.... I hear there are certain people at the Tron who.... go in for a bit of illegal gambling. Cards and stuff.... you get my meaning. They don't do that any more, of course. Mr. Trace found out about it, and put a stop to it all.

  "But well.... Jinxo put the lot on one hand. He reckoned he'd got the perfect hand.... but one of the others beat him. He lost the lot.... ended up owing a lot of people a lot of money. Mr. Trace managed to put it right as much as possible, but well.... The hospital had to turn off the baby's machine, you see. They couldn't afford to keep it going, not with all those people starving in the streets that winter, and with all the food riots and prison riots and everything....

  "So he just moved down here. Gave his name as Jinxo.... and just.... I dunno, just gave up on life, I suppose. A pity."

  "Not so much of a funny story then, really," Smith said to himself. That was Sector Three-o-one, after all. Everyone here would have a similar story, he bet. A tale of lost loves and broken dreams, a dark, desolate road of forsaken happiness that ended here — in the Pit.

  Only one type of person had a good life in the Pit, and that was Mr. Trace and his toadies, people who made a profit out of betraying and feeding off their fellows. Trace had his flunkies; the corrupt, the weak, the morally vacant.... and as long as he was doing fine, then nothing else mattered.

  Smith be
gan to feel a greater sense of importance. Trace had to be shut down, or at least shown what he was doing to these people here. Somebody had to do that, and it might as well be him. He might not be able to save the galaxy, but he could at least fight a battle on a smaller scale.

  He was just coming to this conclusion when he felt strong hands grab the back of his shirt and drag him from his seat. He was hurled against the far wall, striking it with a force that jarred him. He tried to turn and look at his assailant, blinking away the pain.

  "I told you last time," snarled an angry voice. "That's my seat. You been letting other people sit in my chair, Bo?"

  Bo was cowering behind the bar. "N-No.... Mr. Drake, sir. I.... It was just.... I...."

  "Ah, shut up. Get down to the cellar, or the kitchen or somethin'. That way you can tell the truth to the Security lot when you say you didn't see nothing. No.... better yet, tell them this guy here started it, and I were just defendin' myself."

  "S.... started what, Nelson? What are you going to do?"

  The thick, heavy-set man reached into his jacket and pulled out a long, wickedly-sharp knife. "This guy here has been causing problems for Mr. Trace. He's been troubling our overworked security forces, and he just doesn't get the three-o-one ethos here. You work with Mr. Trace, and everything's fine. You annoy Mr. Trace.... and things get a very long way from fine."

  Smith shook his head and looked up. Nelson Drake was advancing on him.

  "We got to set an example for the others in three-o-one, you see," he was saying. "We all got to work together, and that means knowing who's boss. Bad luck for you, mate.... you won't get to learn from your mistake."

  * * *

  The Babylon headed for Z'ha'dum.

  On the bridge sat its captain, the legendary John Sheridan, the Starkiller. He was silent, waiting, thinking about a dead world, a red world, a barren and twisted world at the Rim of known space.

  A world where the one person he loved most in all the galaxy could be found.

  His second, Commander Corwin, was watching him carefully. He was still finding it hard to credit that the Captain was able to walk and move again. He had been assured that the injuries he had received at Epsilon 3 had been permanent. The nature and extent of the spinal damage, to say nothing of the terminal virus he had been infected with two years ago....

  And yet here he was. Alive. Fit. Healthy.

  A miracle. Or perhaps a sign of the aid they could all be given by their new Vorlon allies.

  So why was he so concerned? Something just felt wrong. Very wrong in all this.

  It was not that the Captain was here, back on this ship again. It had been years since Sheridan had commanded the Babylon. He had been in charge of Bester's Parmenion for a year and a half, until its destruction at the Battle of the Third Line, the same battle that had almost cost the Captain his life. The Babylon had been.... changed in that time, modified by the Resistance Government with technology provided by their Shadow allies. Corwin had spent weeks on the ship after it had been retaken, checking out the extent of the upgrades. He had done what he could, but the ship still felt wrong, slightly out of synch with what he remembered.

  Or maybe it was he who had changed. He had commanded the Babylon in those long months when the Captain had lain in his hospital bed, dying one day at a time. The ship had felt so wrong without the Captain, but now that he was back it felt even worse.

  Corwin remembered the meeting of the United Alliance Council he had been called to a few days ago. He had been on this ship, supervising the repair of the damage suffered during their most recent skirmish with the Shadows. He had been working hard, too hard, hoping to forget about Mary that way.

  He had not been surprised by the invitation. He was not a member of the Alliance Council, but he had been present at a number of their meetings in the last few months. As military advisor or something. He had always been uncomfortable there, among alien politicians and economists and wizards.

  His first reaction had been to wonder where Delenn was. She had always been present at such meetings. His second was to notice that the Captain was there. Standing.

  "Captain!" he had cried. "But.... What...?"

  "It's good to see you too, David," he had replied with a broad smile. The two men, friends for over a decade, had embraced, and Corwin had just looked at his commander, dumbfounded.

  "What happened?"

  "The Vorlons," had come the simple reply. "God knows what type of tech they've got at their disposal, but they used it to heal everything. I'm fine. Perfectly fine. I feel better than I have in years."

  "That's great! That's.... Does Delenn know?" There had been a chill pause. "What?"

  "She's not here. They've got her. The Shadows."

  "How? What happened?"

  "We don't know.... not entirely. We think one of the aides here in the Council was infected by one of those.... Keepers. One of Delenn's servants is missing, as well as her private shuttle. We think they managed to capture her, or knock her out.... or something. They've taken her to Z'ha'dum."

  "How are you so sure?"

  "We know."

  "A Keeper, but...." Corwin had looked around for the technomage, Vejar. He possessed strange abilities, magic worked through science, or science that had the appearance of magic.... something like that. He had been given the task of finding all those tainted by the Shadow symbiont.

  He had not been at the table. He was nowhere in sight.

  "What are we going to do?"

  Corwin had suddenly become aware of a bright and blinding light behind the Captain. Blinking and shielding his eyes with his hand, he had realised what it was. A Vorlon. The Vorlon Ambassador, in fact. Ulkesh Naranek.

  "We are going to Z'ha'dum," the Captain had replied. "We're going to find her.... and kill everything else we find there."

  There had been an argument then. One of the Drazi on the Council had muttered something about not being able to spare any ships from the fleet for a futile attack on Z'ha'dum. Delenn would have known that.

  "It doesn't matter," the Captain had replied. "We'll just take the Babylon. It's all we'll need."

  He had been very sure.

  Looking back on it, nothing about that conversation had seemed right to Corwin. Not a single thing. The Vorlons creeped him out, at least this one did. Where had Vejar been?

  There was a movement behind him, and he turned. It was Lyta. She took a step forward, and then stopped as if paralysed. She was looking directly at the Captain.

  The Vorlons had insisted she come along. They had ordered it, in so many words.

  Corwin looked at her, and at the Captain. Neither of them was moving. Neither of them even seemed to be breathing.

  And just for a moment, in what might have been a trick of the light, he was sure he saw Lyta's eyes blaze gold. But then the light faded, and she was just herself again.

  And the Babylon continued towards Z'ha'dum.

  * * *

  The door closed behind her, and Delenn looked at the man in front of her. It was strange, but Ambassador Sheridan seemed every bit as at home here, in this barren construct of stone and rock, as he had in the Council rooms of Kazomi 7. She imagined he had a knack of fitting in wherever he went.

  "You may remove your breathing equipment now," he said politely. "The atmosphere in here is perfectly suitable for you. We have had Minbari here before. Of course your unique biology may cause some difficulties, but I doubt they will be overly serious."

  Delenn unclipped her respirator mask and handed it over to him. She took a few breaths, and then nodded. The air was bearable. The gravity felt a little off, but then she had been used to Kazomi 7 for the last few years.

  The building was sparse, and fairly empty. Everything seemed to be made of stone, as if the place had been hacked out of the raw bones of the planet itself. Everything was red, or brown. It was hot.

  "You made your way here easily enough, then?" Sheridan said, making small talk.

  "Your d
irections were most precise," she said. Then, after a pause, "Thank you."

  "Do you have any baggage? I will have everything taken to your quarters."

  "No," she replied formally. "I am as you see me."

  "I doubt that," he replied, his voice icy. "If you will follow me, I will introduce you to others who wish to meet you again. It has been a while, for most of them."

  "Are you in charge here, then?" she said, following him as he guided her through the corridors. Everything seemed the same; dark, red and hot.

  "This is a private sector of the capital city, built especially for us. The city has a name, by the way, but not even I can pronounce it. Far too many letters. I am.... the highest ranked of those of us here at the moment. The true inhabitants of this city prefer to live in the lower levels, and rarely come up this high. I apologise if the accommodation seems a little.... spartan to you. It was designed by a member of your race, and he had certain.... strict attitudes to what was necessary for life. I have done what I can to make them more habitable, but I am rarely here these days."

  "None of my race has served the Shadows," she replied tersely. "None of us ever would."

  "Oh?" he said, with a raised eyebrow. "Have you forgotten your history? Parlonn lived hereabouts for some years. I can show you the place where he met Marrain and convinced him to join with the.... ah, the Shadows. There's a shrine at the place where Parlonn was murdered down here somewhere. It's quite a way underground, and I don't like travelling there too often. It does get a little claustrophobic at times."

  "Parlonn.... chose his own path."

  "I never said he did not. It is refreshing, actually.... to see that your race can be just as petty as ours. It completely dispels that whole aura of superiority you like to build up around yourselves. Why was it Parlonn changed sides again? Jealousy? Envy?"

  "Neither," she whispered. "He heard your lies and chose to believe them. It was Marrain who betrayed Valen out of jealousy."

  "Ah yes. I had the two confused. Do forgive me." He came to a door and stopped. "This is a.... I don't know if Minbari have a word for it. A living-room would be the English phrase. A place to sit and meet and discuss things that are not business. No vidscreen or television, fortunately. You can't get ISN all the way out here, which is a shame, but I can't say I miss any of the rest of it."