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

by Gareth D. Williams

  "Once.... yes...."

  Zack began to chuckle. "You thought she was pretty hot yourself, didn't you? Sheesh! What is it about alien women that affects some men? I mean me.... I'd much rather take a look at that pretty not bad piece beside you.... er.... no offence intended."

  "Believe me," Talia said. "Of all the things I might take offence at about you, the fact that you find me attractive won't be one."

  Zack thought about that for a moment. "So.... was that a compliment?"

  "No."

  "Oh.... Oh well. Pity. Was beginning to think I was in there."

  "Dexter, wake up!" Talia said sharply. Smith blinked, and then seemed more alert. "Glad you're still with us. You, Allan.... for the last time.... what is Trace up to with IPX?"

  "I told you, I don't know. You could read my mind and find out, assuming you haven't already, I guess. Look.... it's like this. Mr. Trace is a good man. He's a businessman. He's brought a lot of money and jobs and even a little respect into this sector, and God knows how long it's been since we had any of the last one.

  "Now, if from time to time, he, as a respected civic figure and member of the community, wants certain matters attended to by the Security Forces, who are after all paid for by his tax money, then it's my duty to help out in any way I can, right?

  "However, I don't know a thing about IPX, telepaths, big large-scale conspiracies, or the grassy knoll. Any more questions?"

  "Yes, here's one," said Talia. "What's to stop me shooting you right here and now?"

  "Well, three answers to that one. First, that'd be first degree murder in cold blood of a Security officer, and I'm fairly sure the Wartime Emergency Provisions have that little one down in the death penalty section of the rules.

  "Secondly, you're a pretty nice-looking lady, and I'm sure you wouldn't shoot someone in cold blood.

  "And thirdly.... what was it thirdly...?"

  Talia suddenly started, and looked around. She swore. "Too long! Come on!" There was the sound of footsteps outside the window.

  "Oh yeah, thirdly.... the Security guys that have just surrounded the place are going to stop you. You see, on a scale of one to ten.... how thick do you think I am? Yeah, the security system on the apartment's patheticness personified, but there's enough high-tech camera stuff around here to alert the station if any undesirables come calling. They certainly took their time though."

  Talia was still swearing. Smith looked at Zack. "Maybe.... but you're stuck in here with us."

  "You think? Nah. You're stuck in here with me. I've done a few hostage situations, and believe me, if you want to try and stick this thing out, both of you are going out of here in a bag. Probably the same bag, you know how it is with budget cutbacks.

  "On the other hand, give yourselves up now, and.... well.... you'll get a couple of days longer at least, and someone might even put in a good word for you. You never know.

  "So." He finished off his pizza. "What d'you say?"

  * * *

  He has long ago forgotten the place or date of his birth. These are facts that hold no importance for him now. He may once have had a name, but if so it has been lost for millennia. He probably once had futile ambitions, but on the day he looked upon the Well of Souls he realised just how pointless they were.

  He does not even know for sure exactly how old he is. He is not the oldest of the order, but he is close.

  He has seen civilisations rise and fall, great empires, great wonders. He has saved politicians and warriors and poets and writers. From their dreams, which have become a part of his own, he has seen mysteries long gone, and lived among peoples dead for millennia.

  The Primarch Majestus et Conclavus of the Order of Soul Hunters can feel change. He can feel it now. The whispers of the Well of Souls have told him that change is inevitable. The future he has seen will come to pass.

  But the one lesson the Soul Hunters have remembered from their founders is that nothing is written in stone. A lesson their new Primarch Nominus et Corpus would have welcomed gladly.

  Before Sinoval came he had not left Cathedral at all in a thousand years, not since he had met Valen on the shifting sands of the world the Minbari had called Iwojim. Since Sinoval's arrival he has seen more of the peoples of this day and age. He has seen the Great Machine, he has seen Minbar again, and other places, other worlds.

  He will leave Cathedral again once more after this. And soon.

  But for now, he is thinking of another. Sinoval, the one the Well of Souls has been speaking of for so long, is walking a dark road, a path that may consume him, and in doing so destroy the order, and Cathedral, and most importantly the Well of Souls. There is only one person who might be able to divert him from that path.

  The Primarch stood alone on the pinnacle of Cathedral, looking out at the world beneath him. Tarolin 2, a minor, insignificant world that had become notorious and important only recently. He could feel her there. Her soul was intertwined with Sinoval's. She was the light to his dark, the calm to his anger, the conscience to his soul.

  He closed his eyes and began to concentrate. He could feel her. A million souls on Tarolin 2, and he could see them all. Hers shone brightest.

  He stepped forward and the pinnacle faded away. He did not fall, instead the air seemed to warp around him. He could hear voices whispering and crackling as he continued to walk. His eyes remained closed. Opening them would.... not be wise, even for one as experienced at this as he was. There were many dimensions that could be seen if one chose to look. Mortal beings looked at the realm they called hyperspace and thought they knew it all. They did not realise that space could be travelled in other ways.

  And there were beings on the other side, straining to break through. Monsters, abominations, horrors, beings so filled with hatred that they wanted to wipe out everything on this world. He could feel them, but he was not afraid. The Vorlons would keep them back, and the Well of Souls would fight them if they came.

  There. Here she was. The Primarch stopped and willed himself to slip between the worlds again. There was a rush of air and a burst of light. He opened his eyes and found himself in the corner of a room. He stepped forward into the light.

  He could see her now, facing the door with her back to him. She was seated at a desk, writing something, flipping through papers, hard at work, buried in her responsibilities, hoping no doubt to be free of her suffering through her duties.

  The Primarch sighed. She had had a hard life, and no doubt things would become no easier. Mortal beings had a terrible burden sometimes.

  "My lady," he said formally.

  She started, and turned. For a moment a flash of panic crossed her face, but then she saw who it was and her fear turned to surprise.

  "You thought I was someone else," he said. "A face that haunts your dreams."

  "Some faces that used to," she replied carefully. "How did you get in here? There are guards on the door, and no other way in or out."

  "No other way accessible by mortal beings," he replied. "I have other ways, and I thought it wise not to let your guards know I am here. This meeting must not become known to Sinoval."

  "I.... see." She rose from her desk and went to a nearby table. There was a small pitcher of a clear liquid there, and two glasses. She poured a glass for herself. "Do you wish something to drink?"

  "The need for food and drink has long since passed me by. It has been so long since last I drank, I fear I have forgotten how."

  She returned to her seat by the desk and turned the chair round. "You've come to talk about Sinoval, haven't you?"

  "Very perceptive, my lady."

  "I.... saw him when he returned. He wanted to see Sherann. He has.... a plan. Something's going to happen, isn't it? Something.... bad."

  "He wishes to...."

  "No!"

  The Primarch paused, mildly surprised by the conviction in her voice.

  "No. I don't want to know."

  "You are his conscience."

  "I was his con
science. Not any longer."

  "What he is planning.... I will not say it is not laudable. It is a strategist's approach to things. The work of a master tactician. I have heard his plan, developed with the unknowing aid of your friend Sherann. It may well work.

  "But the price.... He must not do this. It will damn him, and all of us with him. I have tried to explain, but his anger, his darkness is such that he will not listen. Too many betrayals recently, too many defeats.... he has lost too much.

  "Only you, my lady. Only you can turn him aside from this path."

  "No," she whispered. "No.... I cannot."

  "My lady...."

  "Don't call me that! I am tired. Tired of all this. I'm not a warrior. They are trained from birth to give up everything for the sake of our people. They will sacrifice their lives, their friends, their families.... their loves.... for the greater good, the good of our people. I'm not a warrior. They fight, they die!

  "I build."

  "Then build a better world. Talk to him! He will listen to you."

  "No. I will not.... become involved.... in whatever he plans. He can go to war, he can shed innocent blood, he can do whatever he wishes. I will remain here, and build."

  The Primarch breathed out slowly, and nodded. "I understand." She was his last hope. He knew what he had to do now. It would not be easy, he could feel that, but it would have to be done. "People will die, my lady. A great many people will die if Sinoval continues to walk the dark path he walks now."

  "There are worse fates than death."

  "Yes," he said, with complete understanding. "Yes, there are. You have suffered enough for one lifetime, my lady. I will leave you here.... to your building. Be at peace, and be happy."

  He turned and left. It was time to return to Cathedral and prepare himself for what was to come.

  There are worse fates than death.

  * * *

  A great man.

  Am I a great man?

  Sonovar stood alone on the bridge of the E'ibrek K'Tarr, lost in thought. Ramde Cozon was deep in discussion with the other Ramde of the fleet, and maybe even with their authorities. Sonovar knew very little about the social and governmental organisation of the Tak'cha, and he did not care. He knew their strength in battle, he knew their fanaticism, and he knew their never-ending desire to atone for their sin. That was enough for him.

  "Am I a great man?" he whispered to himself, looking around at the empty room.

  What is a great man? He had asked that question countless times, of himself, of his teachers, of Kats, of Kozorr.... What was the standard of greatness? What was it that made Valen or Nemain or Varmain great people? Was it even anything that could be measured?

  He had to know.

  For only if he knew the answer could he become great himself.

  Forell had once come to him, appearing from nowhere in the slimy way he had, sidling up to him. He had remained there in silence for several minutes before asking a question. It had seemed simple enough, but it had taken Sonovar a very long time to formulate an answer.

  "What do you want, great lord?"

  "I want.... I want to be a hero. I want to be in all the books and lores and tales of history. I want my name to be written alongside that of Varmain, or Marrain, or Valen himself! I want to be great.

  "I want to be great."

  Forell had hesitated for a moment, and then smiled. "Then all this you shall have, great lord."

  For as long as he could remember, Sonovar had wanted to be a hero. He had always believed in the right of the hierarchy, of the leaders of the Fanes and the clans, and ultimately of the Grey Council itself. He would ascend that ladder, in time.

  And yet he had watched as others less able than himself had climbed. He had observed as workers and priestlings raised their cronies and blocked the true warriors from advancing. He had served the Grey Council all those years, and what had he to show for it?

  It had taken two people, one his greatest idol and the other his greatest enemy, to show him his true mistake.

  Kalain had raised him to the Grey Council, and had then proceeded to abuse and profane that sacred institution. He had tortured and violated Kats in that most holy of places, in a sickening display. Sonovar had watched, confused and puzzled and privately revolted, but he had done nothing, because he believed. Kalain was of the Grey Council. Therefore, surely anything he did was for the good of Minbar?

  Only when Sinoval returned had the scales fallen from his eyes. Only then did he truly understand.

  A great man did not humbly or meekly abide by the sanctions of society. A great man broke all chains binding him. A great man disregarded his destiny, ignored the words of others, and rose by his will alone. Valen had not acted according to convention when he had formed the Anla'Shok and created the Grey Council, and neither had Sinoval when he had shattered both.

  "Am I a great man?" he asked again, and realised the sheer futility of that question.

  He would never know. History would judge him, and the decision would not be made until long after his death. If he was fortunate, if the old Gods of war favoured him, he would be reborn into another body, another life, and then he would look back at history's judgment of his former life, and only then would he know.

  There was the soft sound of footsteps at his side, and he turned, smiling when he saw who it was. Takier, clan leader of the Storm Dancers clan, was one of his greatest allies. He had been among the first to spurn Sinoval's leadership, and when Sonovar announced himself in opposition, Takier had brought his entire clan to his side.

  Almost his entire clan.

  Takier had been blessed with three children. His son had been killed in the assault on Minbar. He had two daughters. Tirivail had come with her father willingly, recognising the needs of Minbar and her duty to her clan.

  Lanniel had gone elsewhere.

  "They talk," said Takier, half dismissively. "They talk, they pray, they argue. It is strange, but they remind me a great deal of the priestlings debating a foolish point of law in Valen's prophecies."

  Sonovar nodded in recognition. "True, but these priestlings have teeth. By all the old Gods, they can fight."

  "Oh yes," Takier acknowledged. "They can fight."

  "Do you think they will agree?"

  "I think they will.... in due time. In fact, I believe you will have to hold them back from all-out war. They may well decide that intensifying the raids on Alliance ships is not enough, and a full assault is preferable. Kazomi Seven was after all the last known location of their Valen. He has not been seen in many months, or so I am told. Some of the Tak'cha believe he was murdered by the Alliance."

  "And you, Takier? What do you believe?"

  "Valen.... was a man, like any other. It is the doom of all men to die. He lived a thousand years ago, and he died then. Whoever this.... imposter is, he is not Valen, and whatever the Alliance have done to him is of the supremest irrelevance to me."

  "All great men die," Sonovar mused to himself.

  "Ah, but they live on in another way." Sonovar cocked his head and looked at his companion. "They live on in the eyes and hearts and souls of everyone who has ever wanted to be them. It is by the telling of tales of great men that we remind ourselves that we also may be great. We emulate them, maybe even surpass them, and so they live on.... forever."

  "Immortality. Life eternal through song and poem and memory. Now there is something worth living for."

  "Worth dying for."

  "Worth dying for. Indeed."

  Yes. I will be great, and thus will I live forever. What more can any warrior ask for?

  * * *

  Elsewhere another warrior was standing alone, but the pinnacle of Cathedral was a very different place from the bridge of the E'ibrek K'Tarr.

  Sinoval was not thinking of greatness, or of Valen, or of the Alliance. He was thinking of the Vorlons, and of the plan he had been hatching for so long. It was ready now. It would work. His meeting with Kats' cousin had only served to
tighten some of the possibilities.

  "I survived. I hid. There were many of us who hid. From the purges, from Kalain and his warriors. We didn't know he had fallen. We saw the skies rain fire and the ground begin to sicken, and we did not know what had happened. We remained in hiding.

  "At.... at first we were too afraid to come out, and after, we were too weak. We fell ill, so ill.... I saw more of us die. Not just workers. There were some religious caste as well. And even a warrior or two.... those who had chosen to stay behind, I suppose.

  "Then they came. They found us. They sought us out, and they found us all. We were rounded up and taken to Yedor. They'd set up base there. Those of us who.... were not too sick, began to recover. They did something to us. They did something to the land. They purged the poisons, but.... I don't know. I don't know what they're capable of, but they left the damage to the atmosphere. They left the impact sites and all the dust everywhere....

  "I heard one of them say something. It said.... they were correcting the influence of the Enemy, putting right what should not have been done. They seemed.... angry, somehow. They seemed angry about the poison and the sickness, but not about anything else.

  "I didn't understand it.

  "They set us to work, once we were able. Some of us were telepaths. They.... disappeared. The rest of us they set to work, rebuilding, trying to tend the fields, doing as much as possible to repair the damage. They didn't seem to recognise that we needed to eat.... and sleep. They worked us until we collapsed.

  "I was lucky. I managed to steal a shuttle and escape. There are others there. Not many now.... but they're going to die. They're being worked to death. Please.... Kats said you would help. She promised that you would help them. Help us."

  "How many Vorlons are on the planet? How many ships?"

  "There were.... there were a lot. Most of them left. I saw one ship as I fled. I don't think it noticed my shuttle. There is one in Yedor that I know of.... and some others in the southern cities. Most of them left.

  "Will you help us? Please."