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

by Gareth D. Williams

  She shook her head sadly, and prayed that Lyta had received her message. She had tried to explain just how much of a friend the red-haired telepath had been. She was one of the few humans who had accepted her without reservation.

  Delenn stepped over the discarded bowl and walked to the door, pushing at it gently. It was still locked. Evidently they were still deciding what to do with her. She did not want to speculate on what their options were.

  She returned to her bed, and tried to meditate.

  * * *

  It had been a while since Londo had last seen Lethke, and he had to admit the last few years had seen the Brakiri well. He looked considerably cleaner and smarter than the last time, although not noticeably happier.

  "We would have brought out the full presentation band for you, Emperor Mollari," he said dryly. "However, as you can see.... we have been a little.... occupied here."

  "I did see indeed. Was that really Cathedral out there?"

  "No," said Lethke smoothly. "It was an entirely different millennia-old flying fortress packed full of demons and ghosts and monsters." He smiled. "Or am I not allowed to jest with you now that you have risen so far?"

  "Jest all you like, old friend," Londo said, smiling slightly. He had missed Lethke's dry wit. "I am glad someone can see me and not this costume. Whoever thought white was an appropriate colour for the Emperor, hmm? Purple.... now that I could.... Ah." He waved his hand in disgust. "Babbling again. Ignore me. So, is.... he here?"

  "Primarch Sinoval? Yes, he is here. I have met him once before, of course. An.... unsettling man, to be sure, but an interesting one. He has asked to meet you."

  "Really? I suppose I should be honoured. Is G'Kar here?" Londo was relieved when Lethke nodded.

  "He arrived yesterday. He has not yet made any report to the Council as to his activities, but he has been in seclusion with his.... Ranger associates. He is also aware that you are here."

  "Good. Yes.... I am glad he got here safely. I wish I knew how he managed to sneak into the Imperial Palace, but I am sure he has his.... ways. So, Lethke.... where is Delenn? It has been a while."

  The Brakiri's face fell. "You have not heard?" he whispered.

  "Heard what? We've had next to no news from here recently.... and I've been travelling the last few days. Has something happened to her? Her.... her transformation, it has not relapsed?"

  "No. It is worse than that. The Shadows have her. One of their.... agents. She is.... in their hands now."

  "Great Maker," Londo breathed. "Is she.... alive?"

  "We do not know. Sheridan has gone to their world to find her, but.... I do not see how he can return. Nothing has been right since she was taken, but we do what we can. An alliance with the Centauri Republic would serve us well."

  "I did not come here to bind my people up in your wars, Lethke," Londo replied, a little more firmly than he had intended. His thoughts were on Delenn. A prisoner of the Shadows.... Great Maker! "I came here to speak of peace. The Narns have a representative here?"

  "Yes. An Ambassador, by the name of G'Kael. A quiet fellow, for a Narn."

  "Which would put him just a little louder than the entire Centarum put together," Londo observed. "I would like a meeting arranged with him, and with G'Kar. We need peace.... and badly."

  "I agree. Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar has been informed that you are here. Allow me to escort you to your quarters, and the chambers we have set aside for you and your entourage. You may if you wish make a presentation before the Council at any time today. We have...." He smiled ruefully. "We have much to talk about these days, but little actually to do."

  "Good. I would like to talk with G'Kar, and with this.... G'Kael. Then.... discussions regarding an Ambassador to be posted here. I have.... a few candidates. Mostly people I want to be rid of and burden onto you, but we need not tell the others that, need we? Trade pacts, treaties of neutrality.... all those things I will be happy to discuss.

  "But we will not join your war, Lethke. The Centauri have suffered enough already."

  Lethke bowed. "I accept your wishes, Londo. But if G'Kar and Delenn and the Vorlons are right.... then there can be no staying out of this war. It will come to you, if you do not go to it."

  "He speaks right," said a new voice, one Londo had not heard before. A voice filled with the timbre of authority, a voice used to leading, a voice that could rattle buildings, and stir souls, and instil the fear of all things dark into a craven heart.

  A Minbari was standing at the entrance to this small audience chamber. The area should of course have been cordoned off and well-protected by the security forces, but Londo would not have been surprised if they had just stepped aside and let him past.

  He was tall and standing proud, in black warrior garb with a strange badge on his chest. A compacted pike hung from his belt, and traces of silver shone from the black tops of his boots. It was his eyes that caught Londo most of all — dark and piercing, they seemed to be studying him intently, seeing through the flesh to his very soul. Which, given who this man was, did not seem impossible.

  "Londo Mollari," Londo said, introducing himself and stepping forward. He held his hands out, palms raised upwards in the traditional greeting of Centauri nobles. "Emperor of the Centauri Republic, Guardian of Centauri Prime, Light of the Fourth Something and various other pointless titles."

  The Minbari stepped forward and clasped Londo's wrists. He knew the greeting, then. Londo was impressed. "I am Sinoval." That was it. That was all he needed, really.

  Londo stepped back and glanced at Lethke. "This is an impressive gathering you have here, Lethke. Several of the most powerful people in the galaxy." He looked back to Sinoval. "Why have you come here? Treaties and pacts and all the other rigmarole of diplomacy?"

  "No," came a simple response. "There are things I need to say to the Council.... to others. Warnings, prophecies even."

  A chill gripped Londo's chest at the mention of the word 'prophecy'. "Ah. How well were your warnings received?"

  "I have not spoken to them yet. I was waiting."

  "Waiting? What for?" Londo had an uncomfortable feeling that he knew the answer.

  "You." Londo cursed inwardly. Perhaps Timov was right. He was turning into a prophet. He hadn't thought he had the figure to be a Seeress.

  "Well. Now, I am here."

  Sinoval smiled, a strange gesture that looked unnatural on him. "You and Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar are invited to visit Cathedral at your convenience. There is someone there you must meet, and something you must see. Then I think you will understand more."

  Sinoval inclined his head in a slight bow, then turned and left.

  "There," Londo said after a short pause, "is a very scary person."

  "He has changed since last I saw him," Lethke observed. "I cannot explain it, but.... No, it is nothing. These times.... cast a gloom over me. Come, Londo. I will show you and your staff and your bodyguards and our bodyguards to your chambers, and you can regale me with all the goings-on at the Royal Court these days."

  "You may regret that offer," Londo replied in jest, but his hearts were not really up for jokes. Neither was Lethke's.

  * * *

  "Lemme guess," drawled Sector 301's Security Chief Zack Allan in his I-really-could-be-doing-something-so-much-more-interesting-than-this tone of voice. "Cause of death: knife wound to the neck."

  "Well, the forensic guys are going to take a while to get back to us," replied Jack, his second. "But it looks like it."

  "Yeah. I could tell that, you see.... thanks to all the various subtle hints and clues and intuitions you get when you've been doing this job long enough. You see, I spot things that some other people might miss. For example, the stiff had a big, sharp knife stuck in his neck, and he was dead. Therefore, cause of death."

  "Dunno how you do it, Chief," replied Jack. "Puts the rest of us to shame."

  "Well, gotta be good at something." Zack looked up and made a cursory visual inspection of the bar. He was bored. Very bored
. Time was when a murder would at least have piqued his interest for a while, but there was no real detective work to do here. There rarely was, at least not in the Pit. Maybe in some of the upper sectors you could get those interesting locked room mysteries with a million suspects and some brilliant amateur sleuth who'd step in and lend a hand, but down here in 301, there usually wasn't a lot of doubt. When one drunk person sliced open another drunk person in broad daylight in front of like six zillion witnesses, there was only so much you could do to drag the case out until teatime.

  Which looked like the case here. Well, there were two witnesses, rather than a zillion, and Zack had a feeling neither suspect nor stiff had been especially drunk, but it was pretty damned obvious who was guilty.

  If he didn't know better, he'd assume Mr. Trace had either set this up, or sent his man to kill Smith and it had simply gone wrong, but Zack did know better. As a result he was buying the 'unprovoked attack' theory put across by the barman.

  "He just.... he just went mad," the barman was saying, for the umpteenth time. What was his name? Zack had forgotten. Oh, it couldn't have been important. The Ombuds down here didn't worry so much about evidence or due process or reliable testimony or whatever. They just did what Mr. Trace said and then went home early to watch the vids.

  Zack could relate.

  "He just started punching him, punching and punching. He broke a chair on Mr. Drake's back. And then.... oh, my God.... he got out a knife, and...."

  Zack stopped listening. Yeah, yeah. They got the picture already. Sheesh. Someone just take a statement and get on with it. The body had been removed by the forensics guys, who had then proceeded to check for.... whatever stuff it was they checked for. They had spent the whole time arguing about who was sexier: some blonde woman on some soap opera, or some other blonde woman on some other soap opera. Finally, the guys had amicably agreed to differ.

  Real co-operation. Understanding each other's differences. Maybe there was hope for the Pit yet.

  Yeah, right.

  "What do you think, Allan?"

  Zack turned and saw Mr. Trace standing next to him. His hands were in his trouser pockets, and he was looking around with an expression that might have been sadness, or might have been disgust. Probably both.

  "Well, the story is, the suspect.... this Dexter Smith guy.... just snapped, and attacked Drake. Beat him up, slapped him a couple of times, at least once with a chair, and then drove a knife into his neck."

  Trace nodded, knowing as well as Zack did that that was all rubbish. Sure, Smith looked a fairly hard guy, but Drake was big, and very mean. No way would he have gone down that easily. Besides, judging from the position the body had been in....

  "What do you think set him off?"

  "Hard to tell," Zack replied, scratching at his ear. "The suspect had been drinking. Not too much according to the barman, but you know how it is with some people. One glass and they're ready to take on the whole world. Maybe drugs or something. Could have been some psychiatric thing. That.... what is it.... Minbari War Syndrome."

  "I heard Smith quit Earthforce because of some combat stress problem."

  "Yeah, that could be it."

  "Could be." Trace shook his head. "A sad day. Drake was a good man. A damned good man."

  "Have you told his missus yet?"

  "Just on my way round now. I wanted to see what you'd found out first. You are going to find this guy, aren't you, Allan?"

  "No problem. We'll get him."

  "Good. You're a good man, Allan. I know I can rely on you."

  Trace slapped him gently on the back, then turned and left. Zack looked around for a while and then left to get something to eat.

  * * *

  In one sense it was all completely irrational. Ambassador David Sheridan had spent all his life meeting and mixing with aliens. He had done business adjudicating the fates of empires with people he wouldn't trust to clean his shoes. He had made speeches of undying friendship to people he knew were just waiting to stab him in the back.

  Throughout his entire career he had never let personal dislike get in the way of the necessity of his work. The needs of his people were more important than personal feelings.

  Until now.

  It was Delenn. He just couldn't seem to think straight concerning her. Of course he had plenty of rational reasons for disliking her — leaving aside the issue of what she had done to Earth, there was the way she had seduced John, caused him to betray his Government and led him to a deathbed on some alien world.

  On the other hand, he had always been able to concentrate on the greater good before.

  The Shadows themselves had discussed her presence here, and they had left the matter entirely up to him. They were sure that she carried nothing, either on her person or in her ship, that could pose a threat. There were no explosive devices, no long-range tracking signals, or spy cameras or whatever other interesting technology the Vorlons could have come up with. They had no fears about anyone mounting any sort of rescue attempt. Z'ha'dum was well protected, they would have ample warning of any oncoming fleet, nothing less than the entire complement of the Vorlon fleet would pose a threat in any case, and for some reason the Shadows seemed convinced that would not happen.

  So, the Shadows had given him three options: kill her here and now, give her a Keeper and send her home, or take her to Proxima for trial.

  The second, Ambassador Sheridan had dismissed out of hand. It was a fine idea, but the Alliance had that damned technomage, and he would definitely be looking for a Keeper. As Delenn's only real power base was Kazomi 7 it would be pointless sending her anywhere else. She had no influence in the Minbari Federation any more, and besides.... Sinoval was being kept well in hand.

  Sheridan had contemplated trying to turn her without the aid of a Keeper. It had worked with Parlonn a thousand years ago, and with Neroon recently. They were both warrior caste however, and something within them appealed more to the whole ethos of 'survival of the fittest' and 'growth through chaos'. Delenn had had too much indoctrination from the Vorlons for that to work without some major genetic modification, and the technomage would spot that as well.

  So: kill her now, or take her home for trial.

  From a purely personal viewpoint, he just wanted her dead. He was sick of her and her whole infernal race. John would be gone by now, his last days spent trapped in wires and tubes and machinery in the company of aliens. Delenn had done that to him. Just kill her and be done with it.

  But.... the greater good. At Proxima she could be put on trial, public trial for her war crimes. Clark would receive an even greater boost in popularity. It would show the public yet again the benefits of their alliance with the Shadows. A boost in public confidence, another victory in a propaganda war. It would also be a vital stepping stone for the next stage in the rebirth of humanity: war with the Alliance.

  He rubbed at his eyes wearily. He was tired, and he couldn't think. He had been putting the good of humanity above his own desires all his life. Surely he was entitled to one act of selfishness now?

  She had killed his son. She had killed his daughter, and his grandchildren, and she had been responsible for the death of his wife. Everyone he had ever loved had been lost to her.

  He sipped at his tea, and realised it had long since gone cold. He sighed. A man was not meant to outlive his children, least of all his grandchildren. That was.... not the way of things.

  But the good of humanity. Surely that was worth more? Humanity could benefit from this far more than just his desire to put her down here and now.

  Why had she come? What benefit had she hoped to gain from this little stratagem?

  He looked up, hoping to ask Neroon. He knew her better than most after all. There was no sign of him. The Minbari was gone.

  Sighing, Ambassador Sheridan prepared another cup of tea. He was thinking about Proxima.

  * * *

  Londo's quarters were.... adequate. Surprisingly so, given the state the whole o
f Kazomi 7 had been in the last time he had been here.

  The room was comfortable, large enough for his purposes, possessed all the amenities a visiting dignitary might need, near enough to the main Council chambers, and with a quite stunning view of the city, which seemed so much more alive since he had last been here.

  Which meant, of course, that all his retainers hated the place.

  "Quite inadequate," blustered one. "Too small," said another. "Security provisions are worthless." "Barbarian little cultures.... they have no idea how to treat a civilised ruler."

  Londo listened to all this with a smile. Things felt almost normal. He considered letting all the courtiers know that the rooms were fine, but then they would only find something else to complain about.

  He was looking out at the city. The suns were shining. He could see children running and playing. There was a shrine he could just make out. It seemed wonderfully.... peaceful. He made a mental note to ask Lethke what it was.

  Everything was so different. He had last seen this place over a year and a half ago, and then it had been a bombed-out wreck, haunted by monsters and ghosts and demons. He had fled through those streets in mortal peril of his life. Lennier had left some vital part of his soul behind. Delenn had nearly died here.

  Delenn....

  Londo wondered what had happened to her. More than anything else, more so even than G'Kar, she had a talent for making the most convoluted problem seem so wonderfully simple. She possessed a good heart, and a shining soul. He could see that as he looked around him. Everything in the city bore her touch.

  And now she was gone. Perhaps never to return.

  "I trust the rooms are to your satisfaction?" said a familiar voice.

  Londo turned around with a start, and then he noticed who it was. "Gah! G'Kar, do not do that to me! I am an old man. My hearts are not in the best of shape, least of all after the rigours of the last few.... well, years. Great Maker!" He began to breathe harder. "A wonderful sight, isn't it?"

  "A miracle," came the reply. "A triumph of hope over despair."

  "We have Delenn to thank for it."