His earliest memory was a realisation, one day when he had been about five or so. He had looked around at the adults around him, the children who were his friends, the rundown buildings, the sheer lack of hope in everyone's eyes, and had completely understood just how stupid they all were. They lived in Sector 301, and it destroyed them. It had sucked away all their dreams, all their hopes, all their futile aspirations to be someone. They had come here, and they would never leave.
Trace had made himself two promises: first, that he would leave Sector 301, and second, that he would return, when he was powerful enough to own it.
He had been told it was possible to escape the Pit legitimately, but then he had been told it was possible to win the New Vegas lottery as well. He didn't know anyone who'd done either, and the odds of both were about the same. He had therefore set about escaping illegitimately.
Proxima was a long way from Earth, but some of the old creeds still lived here. The old gangs, the old cultures, the old ways. Mafia, Triad, Yakuza.... and others. The Thieves' Guild had a few representatives here, but Trace disliked all aliens intensely. No, better to stick with those he knew.
He had joined a small Mafia family at the age of thirteen, running errands, performing minor tasks, and proving surprisingly adept at mixing drinks. Under their tutelage he managed to get away from the Pit and up-sector. By the time the headman's only son was killed in a skirmish with some Yakuza, Trace had managed to get close to him, close enough to be named his heir.
The fall of Earth, the collapse of Orion and a bloody and brutal gang war that wiped out almost all the Yakuza and the Mafia, left him with almost everything he needed. He looked at Sector 301, he saw all the vulnerable, tired and scared people flocking there, and he smiled.
They were so stupid. None of them would ever escape, not one. He could capitalise on their lost dreams and broken hopes.
The first step of course was the legitimate return. So, he opened up a club. It was just close enough to the border with Sector 303 to be considered vaguely 'respectable'. All the money that had come into his hands with the collapse of the Mafia went on buying certain people. The entire Government was in chaos for years after Orion, and the security force in the Pit had been corrupt anyway. A few people had taken exception to Trace moving in on their territory, but examples had soon been made of them. They were all small fry anyway. Pathetically small.
It could all have come to nothing, however, without a very fortunate and surprising call that had come to him in his club one day.
His association with his mystery backer was based on a number of deals. The backer would provide him with enough money, influence and respectability to get whatever he wanted. He would provide the backer with as many telepaths as he could find, or at least news of their whereabouts. Trace would be protected from just about anyone who could threaten him, and he would make no effort to discover what happened to the telepaths once they left 301.
The arrangement had been working nicely for almost five years now. Trace had from time to time wondered just what his backer wanted with all those telepaths. He had some theories, but nothing he was sure of. To be honest, he did not really care. He knew who his backer was, and he was capable of throwing around enough money and power to buy out half of Proxima.
Trace was so close to getting what he had always wanted: respectability. He had been sounding people out about running for the Senate at the next election. There were rumours from Main Dome that the Wartime Emergency Provisions were to be relaxed, enough to start holding elections again. The local sector councils would be first. Within six months, he was betting. He could get a fair few people on there, he was sure. After that, the Senate election would follow. A year at most, he was certain.
And after that, well.... with his backer's assistance, would President Trace be too much to wish for?
A fine dream. All it took to rise in the world was perseverance, and a recognition of the sheer stupidity of others. Well, and luck, but someone or other — had it been Napoleon? — had said that everyone gets luck, both good and bad. It's the great people who know how to use it.
Trace liked the sound of that.
He reviewed the expected guests for tonight. An aide to Senator Macabee was rumoured to be bringing his new girlfriend, a couple of middle-placed execs at ISN and the first team of the Proxima Swashbucklers were meant to be along. Trace smiled, and made a mental note to let the bar staff know their drinks were on the house. He actually owned twelve percent of the Swashbucklers, and he was fairly certain of getting another ten percent or so within a few months. He'd have a majority shareholding before the end of the year.
Owner of a successful baseball team, huh? He chuckled, wondering what all his childhood friends would say if they could see him now. They'd probably curse at his luck, and say they could have made it out as well, but they'd been unlucky.
Some people never learned.
Trace headed out of his office and set off for the bar. You never knew when someone would pop in a little early, and he always liked mingling with the guests.
There were going to be two guests coming that night he had certainly not been expecting. But then, Dexter Smith and Talia Winters hadn't put their names down on the guest list.
* * *
Delenn had lost track of time. It did not seem to work quite the same way here. Of course, she remembered from her previous experiences as a prisoner that keeping track of time was difficult. It was easier to keep prisoners disoriented and uncertain.
They obviously still had not decided what to do with her. She did not really blame them. She wondered what was happening in the Alliance. They would not try to rescue her; she had made that completely clear in her message to Lethke. That had been when she thought she was going to die. How was she to know that Vejar would betray her like that?
Of course in his eyes it was not a betrayal. It was an important decision taking precedence over personal feelings. Delenn had done the opposite, putting her personal feelings before the good of the many.
No! The Alliance needed John more than it needed her. He was a warrior, a soldier, a leader of men. This was a time for warriors, not healers. Sinoval knew that. John knew that.
The Alliance could hold without her. She had made sure of that. Her message to Lethke had explained everything, all her plans for the furtherance of the Alliance, for the political and diplomatic aims she had been pursuing. She trusted him.
Her mind kept returning to the question she was afraid to ask. What would they do to her? She was thinking about Proxima, if the Shadows let Ambassador Sheridan have that much influence in the decision. A trial there for war crimes, a return to the prison from which John had freed her....
The door opened and she looked up, expecting Ambassador Sheridan, or her next meal. She was wrong on both counts.
"Delenn," said a familiar voice, one she had not heard for years. She rose to her feet, trembling slightly.
"We have a great deal to discuss," said Neroon.
* * *
At that same moment, above both their heads, the space around Z'ha'dum opened and the Babylon came into view.
"So that's Z'ha'dum," muttered Corwin to himself. "It doesn't look like much. There don't seem to be any Shadow vessels here."
"They're here," said the Captain. "They're here."
"So, what do we do now?"
The Captain was silent.
Chapter 3
Delenn of Mir, now the leader of the United Alliance of Kazomi 7, had been blessed with the love of five men during her life.
The first had been her father, who had passed from this world a few years after the fall of Earth and the Battle of Mars. He had been unable to reconcile his beliefs with the terrible consequences of the war to which his daughter had committed their people.
The second had been Dukhat, her teacher and mentor. It was he who had recognised the flame of destiny in her, and had nourished and nurtured it, raising her to the position she had been born to
hold. If he could have realised the horror that would result from that choice, would he still have made it? Delenn did not know.
The third had been Draal, her father's dearest friend. He had died three years ago, killed by a stray shot on the verge of achieving a greater destiny than anyone could imagine.
The fifth had been Captain John Sheridan, for whom she had walked into darkness, sacrificed her future, and her people, and her heart.
But the fourth.... She had thought him lost for years now, and it had been years before that when they had last spoken. Neroon had chosen his own destiny, turning his back on the Rangers, on his leader Branmer, on his people, and on his one true love. He had gone to join Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar. He had recognised the growing darkness within his people, and had known then that this war against the Shadows would have to be fought by others.
Now it seemed he had changed his destiny a second time and had sought a new path, one which had brought him here.... to a dead world at the end of the galaxy, and back into the life of his former love.
"Delenn," he said, looking at her with his dark eyes. "We have a great deal to discuss."
* * *
"I would just like to say this is the craziest plan I have ever gone along with."
"I heard you the first time. For that matter, I heard you thinking it the first time. For one of us, you really don't hide your thoughts very well."
"The product of an unsophisticated upbringing, I'm sure. What do you hope to find in here?"
"Information. Just what Trace is doing with our people once he gets them, where he sends them to, who takes receipt.... why all this. And you may be interested in hard evidence of criminal activities, enough to take to Main Dome and help your poor, oppressed friends in Sector Three-o-one."
"Right. Thanks for the reminder."
"Oh, don't worry. I've done this hundreds of times before."
"That's supposed to make me not worry?"
"You're too tense. I thought you said you'd spent all your time breaking into things as a child."
"That was as a child. I've had all those years of Earthforce training and mindsets to turn me around since then."
"Pity. If only we'd known, we could have done a great deal with you."
"I was happy where I was."
"Happy, really? I don't think so. I was watching you while I was on the Babylon. You always looked as if you were.... filling someone else's shoes, standing in until the star came back. You didn't belong there."
"Ah, a regular psychiatrist. That just made it easier for you to trick me, right?"
"Well.... yes, but I didn't enjoy doing it. I actually liked you, believe it or not. I've seen many a worse officer than you."
"Oo, praise. I'm flattered."
"But you still didn't belong there. You belong here. Somebody has to fight the small battles after all."
"So which are you fighting? The small battles, or the big ones?"
"I'm a.... small part in a big battle. The future of humanity could depend on finding out what's happening here."
"Oh, great. The future of humanity resting on my shoulders. Again."
"I knew I could depend on you. Besides, we're the future of humanity."
"You telepaths?"
"We telepaths. You're one of us, remember."
"Oh, how silly of me to forget."
"Now, shush. You remember what we're looking for?"
"Yes."
"And how to get in?"
"Yes."
"Good. Let's go."
* * *
It was Lyta who first noticed the emergence of the Shadow ships from hyperspace. It began with a dull buzzing at the back of her mind, as she heard the far distant echoes of their screams. Reaching up to rub her eyes, she blinked, and caught a flash of them surrounding the Babylon.
The ship seemed to move beneath her, crying out in yearning. Of course, part of it was Shadow technology. The Shadow ships were alive after all, in a sense. It was only reasonable that the living tech within the Babylon should call out to its elder siblings nearby.
The ship had come home.
Wait, hissed the voice in her mind. All is as was planned.
"They're coming," she said, unsure whether she had spoken the words or merely thought them. "They're here."
There will not be a fight. The war is not destined to be fought here.... yet. The Vorlon's voice paused, and she could detect a sensation of immense smugness. And if it is, then you will be ready for it.
The buzzing grew louder, and she collapsed to her knees in pain just as the first Shadow ship came into view.
"Battle stations!" cried Commander Corwin. "Lyta, are you ready...?" He turned. "Lyta!"
"There won't be...." She coughed, harshly. "There won't be a fight. I don't think."
"She's right," said Sheridan. He was still staring forward. "They want to intimidate us, that's all. They're not ready for a fight."
Corwin's confusion was plain on his face, but he nodded. "Okay.... We all know this how?"
"Trust me, David."
He shrugged. "How many of them are there, anyway?"
The technician looked up from his control panel. He looked terrified, as well he might. "Seventeen.... eighteen.... more coming through.... twenty-two."
"Well," muttered Corwin to himself. "We'd better let them get up to fifty before we attack. We want them to have a fair chance after all."
Sheridan suddenly rose to his feet, a mere moment before a signal came through on open channel.
--- This is Z'ha'dum to invading vessel. This is our airspace. Why have you come here? — --
A human voice, speaking in English. That creeped out a lot of people even more than they were already.
"This is Captain John Sheridan," said the Captain. "We are the former EAS Babylon. We have come on a mission of rescue. May I know who I am speaking to?"
--- John.... --- Even over the commsignal the voice sounded horrified. --- I was told you were.... Hah! This is David Sheridan, representative of the.... um.... the Shadows, and the Resistance Government of Proxima Three. I guess you don't remember our last conversation, hmm? ---
The Captain said nothing. Corwin closed his eyes. Delenn had told him that the Ambassador Sheridan who had come to Kazomi 7 on the peace initiative last year had been John's father, but that John was not to be told of this.
--- I think we need to discuss this in private. Do I have leave to come aboard your vessel? ---
"Yes," said the Captain in a hollow voice. "Come alone, and instruct your Shadow allies not to make any aggressive moves towards us. We do not want to start a fight."
--- Of course not. I taught you never to do that. We will speak on board. Z'ha'dum out. ---
"Well," Corwin said, partly to himself. "We're still alive. That's good. Lyta, are you...?"
Lyta didn't hear him. She looked up at the Captain, and for just one, brief moment, she saw his eyes shine a bright gold. But it was only for a moment, and then the light was gone.
* * *
Vejar had been expecting him for some time. He had sensed the impending arrival of Cathedral before any of Kazomi 7's sensors picked it up. He had heard the whispers of the Well of Souls in his dreams for days now.
He had been on Kazomi 7 for almost two years, and he had rarely regretted his decision to relinquish his order and work here. He had been blessed to know some truly wonderful people, especially Delenn. His betrayal of her hurt him badly, but it was necessary. Elric and the One Above All had wondered at the end.... would this be the Blessed Delenn for whom they had all waited, or would she merely repeat the mistakes of the past?
He wished he knew.
He could see the darkness growing in Kazomi 7. The omens and portents had been building ever since Captain Sheridan had been injured. The false peace talks with the Shadows, the arrival of the new Vorlon Ambassador, and now Cathedral.... and Sinoval the Cursed.
"Open," he said. The door did so, and in he walked.
Vejar turned to loo
k at Sinoval. He looked not only with his eyes, but with his soul. He saw genuine goodness in the man, but buried deep beneath darkness and hatred and anger. He instantly saw Sinoval's greatest weakness, which was identical to his greatest virtue. He could never regret any action he took, and hence he could not learn from his mistakes.
He was incapable of love, and that would curse him. In time.
"Welcome to my abode, Primarch Sinoval the Cursed. I have been expecting you for some time."
"I apologise if I kept you waiting, technomage." To Vejar's silent thanks, the Primarch's Honour Guard was kept outside. "I thought it wise to know more about you first. I have been in discussion with the Vindrizi."
"Yes. I had heard they were now under your protection. There are ancient ties of blood and song between our order and their race. It is good that they are kept safe."
"They told me something similar. They are a strange group, their visions and memories focussed on sights and wonders and nature, and not the banalities of politics or warfare. This makes their use.... limited, in the current situation, but they were very helpful in discussing the technomages.
"Tell me, magus, you have been conspicuous by your absence whenever the new Vorlon Ambassador makes a public appearance. As you were when his predecessor was here."
"I could say the same about you, Primarch. You have been avoiding the Vorlons for a while."
"I am waiting for the time to be right. I will not hide from the Vorlons forever. You know why Delenn has gone to Z'ha'dum, don't you?" Vejar nodded, unable to say anything. "As do I. She sent me a message, in which she spoke of other messages that would be sent.... to people here. It seems however that you and I are the only persons on this world who know the truth. The common belief seems to be that she was abducted by agents of the Shadow."
Vejar shrugged. "If that is what they wish to believe...."
"They can believe what they choose! It is not the truth and there are some here who should at least know the truth. Why, then, do they not? Have the Vorlons gained so much influence here already?"
A Dark, Distorted Mirror. Volume 4. A Future, Born in Pain addm-4 Page 10