Then he sighed again. He had been having those dreams for years now.
There was movement by the front door, and he tried to remember if he had locked it or not. His mind quickly ran through anyone who might be coming to see him at this time of night. Mr. Trace and his men? - but they had visited the day before. He was fully paid up until the middle of next month, and he couldn't remember doing anything to annoy Mr. Trace. There was the typical drunken or drugged–up thief, but he remembered what had happened to the last person who had tried to rob a business 'protected' by Mr. Trace. Bits of him were still showing up in back alleys.
Security weren't out and about at this time. So who?
He mumbled something angrily to himself. Probably Jinxo or someone like him throwing up in his doorway, or settling down to sleep, or both. Or expecting him to still be open, and just looking for somewhere warm.
"Oh, go away!" he cried to the door. "I'm closed."
He turned back to the bar, and heard the rattling again. As he looked up, he saw three people walking towards him. He recognised the one in front, but the name didn't come straight away. The other two were women, and one of them looked quite ill. She was leaning heavily on the other.
"I locked that door," he said. "Didn't I?"
"You did," said the conscious woman. "You could do with a better lock."
"We need your help, Bo," said the man.
"Dexter!" he said, recalling the name at last. "Wh.... what are you doing here? Security are still after you."
"Well, they're going to be after me a whole lot more now. Where's the Pit clinic?"
"The.... the.... the.... what? I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do, Bo. Before I went.... underground, I listened to things. Lots of things. You know everything there is to know about Sector Three–o–one, Bo. There's a clinic around here, somewhere, run for people who haven't got anywhere else to go. They'll look after people wanted by Security. And you know where it is."
"I'm a law–abiding citizen. I don't know...."
"Bo, there's someone here who needs your help. Badly. This is a chance for you to do something good, something right. No more pandering to Trace, or Allan, or anyone else. A chance to do something good for yourself. For all of us."
"I.... might know something. Who is she anyway?"
The two women stepped forward, and Bo caught a look at the sick one for the first time. Her head was drooping and there was a misty look in her eyes, but he didn't register any of that at first.
"Holy Mother of Gandhi," he whispered. "That's.... that's.... that's...."
"Yes," said Dexter. "It is. But she's also someone who needs your help. Can you give it?"
"I.... might know.... something," he whispered. "Maybe."
Dexter smiled. "Thanks, Bo. You're doing the right thing."
"Oh, I hope so. I hope so."
* * *
Dear Victoria,
Well, I've done it now. She's free. I heard the report on the emergency frequency less than an hour ago. Naturally, I was appropriately angry. I took all the right actions, ordering full Security sweeps, a search for those responsible.... all that. It doesn't matter. They won't be found. I'm sure of it.
But I will be. I slipped up. Oh, it wasn't anything specific. I did everything as well as I could. The false IDs would have worked fine. But.... it'll be traced back to me. It's obvious even to a blind man that this couldn't have been done without help from inside, from someone very highly placed. They'll find me.
What matters is that they don't find Delenn. Maybe they won't trace things to me for a while. You never know, I might even have time to start that investigation into Sector 301 I promised Smith. Winters has the data crystal I promised, so she'll be happy.
All this is strange. I had plans at the beginning, when I got word of her capture. I could get her help, make a deal with her. It was necessary for the future of humanity. Clark's throwing us into more and more wars that aren't our concern. What do we care about the Alliance? Why did we get involved with Epsilon 3?
Delenn could have helped us. She could have spoken to the Alliance Council, forged some sort of treaty, tried to warn them, anything. With her testimony and with me in the Government here, then.... we could still salvage something from this mess. We could still save humanity.
But look at us now. I don't think we deserve to be saved.
I ordered the murder of an unborn baby for political reasons. I didn't hate him, he had never done anything to wrong me. He just had the wrong mother, and he became life at the wrong moment. That's it.
Hate me if you like, Vicky. You can't hate me worse than I hate myself now. No.... you probably wouldn't hate me. You'd sit there looking at me with those soft, deep brown eyes of yours and you'd understand. You'd understand everything and you'd forgive me, and that just makes it so much worse.
I don't want to be forgiven! I did something terrible, and I don't want to be told I had my reasons, that it was understandable, that it was all right, that I'm forgiven.
We don't deserve to be saved, none of us.
I miss you, Vicky. I've missed you every single day for the past eight years and I'll never stop missing you.
Why did you have to die?
There's no one to blame either. Oh, I could try blaming the Minbari, but what good would that do? That will only lead to more hate. There's probably a Minbari sitting out there somewhere thinking about his lost love and blaming it on us.
We have to stop this somehow, but I've no idea how. I don't think we can. The people don't want it to stop.
As I said, we don't deserve to be saved.
Ah.... they're coming for me. Give Clark credit, he's good. Much cleverer than any of us have seen, even Sheridan. He's planning something. I don't know what, and I don't care, but I do know he's been sitting there pretending to be an idiot while the rest of us have been sniping at each other.
I've got to go. They'll find this letter, of course. Let them. I've said what needed to be said, and it's not as if you're here to read it. I think I just needed to talk to you one last time.
Goodbye, Vicky. I love you.
Welles set down his pen and looked up at the door. They were pounding on the other side of it. Men would even now be taking up positions at the back door, the windows and all possible points of escape. All unnecessary, of course. He had no intention of trying to escape.
He wondered what he would be charged with. Treason against the duly authorised Government, under section 2(1) of the Wartime Emergency Provisions 2247. That was a certainty. Aiding and abetting an enemy of the people. Perverting the course of justice.
Oh, he would be charged with whatever they liked. He would be charged, convicted and sentenced to death. Probably several times over.
He didn't mind. In fact he was quite looking forward to it. It would all be over. All of it. The guilt, the fear, the pain, the loss. All gone.
The door burst open and in rushed the Security officers. His men. His own men. He knew all their names, their spouses' names, their children's names and how many pets they all had.
He slowly rose to his feet.
Chapter 3
There was pain, but then he had expected that. They had not gone easy on him, and why should they? The guards had been understandably angry. He had, after all, arranged the escape of a war criminal, a mass murderer and the orchestrator of the destruction of Earth.
All in all he had got off fairly lightly, although they were not done with him yet.
Welles wondered what the public statement would be. Macabee would probably be having heart failure over how to present this to the public. It would probably remain secret for quite some time. Clark would obviously be hoping to recapture Delenn and pretend none of it had ever happened.
He shifted on the cold floor of his cell and winced at the pain in his side. Maybe not broken ribs, but bruised certainly. He knew all about the uses of pain and isolation when it came to interrogations. He would be left
alone for a while now, a few days at least, to increase fear, to bring about a sense of solitude and loneliness.
He knew all about interrogation techniques. He had used them all in his time, but he had never imagined he would be subject to them.
His fingers throbbed. He wondered if they were broken, or if there was tendon damage or something. Vicky could have told at a glance of course, but he could only make an educated guess. He had learned a great deal in seven years married to a doctor, and his near–perfect memory helped him recall a lot, but alas, he did not know everything.
"What would you think of me, I wonder?" he whispered, imagining her here. He had not done that for years, it was too painful. He had mentioned her to Bester a few years ago, and that had been the first time he had even thought about her since her death. Now that he had acknowledged her, however, it was impossible to deny her.
"Oh, Vicky," he whispered. "I'm sorry....
"I'm so sorry."
He listened very hard for a reply, but there was none.
* * *
Alone, lost, damned, she floated in a world of her own, where the only sound was her son's heart beating, the only word she knew, his name.
David....
She did not know where she was. She knew there were people around. This was a different place from where David had been killed. These were different people. They seemed.... kinder. Wary, yes, but kinder, a mix of revulsion and caring, hatred and sympathy.
One of them she thought she knew, but comprehension eluded her.
He was dead. David was dead. Her son. His heart had stopped beating. He had been changed from her son into a mass of dead cells and sucked from her body. She had felt his heart stop beating.
She didn't know who had done that to him. To her. She didn't know their names, what they looked like, who they were. Did they have children?
A vital point of understanding almost touched her, but then the sound of the heartbeat grew louder, and she slipped away, lost in a dream.
A dream, or a memory.
It was on Z'ha'dum. She and.... two other people.... She thought she knew them, but their names escaped her. She had loved one of them once, loved him very much. She had hated the other. Or maybe not hate, but.... something.
There had been caverns all around them, hot rocks and masses of rubble. Somewhere along the journey she had come upon shiny, reflective surfaces, almost like mirrors. One of her companions.... the one she had once not quite hated.... had paused, trying to think.
Something in the - mirror, if that was what it was - attracted her, and she stepped forward to look at it. She saw a reflection that was herself, and not herself. There was something in the eyes, a wealth of experiences that were not her own. This.... different her had known love, and fear, and joy, and loss, just as she had.... but different.
It had been there for only a moment, and then it had vanished.
Who was this other self? Someone who had made a different choice, days, or weeks, or years ago? Someone for whom things had gone better, or worse?
Could she have done things differently, and become that other self? Would David still be alive if she had done that? Would he even have been conceived?
She did not know. Too many questions she just could not answer. David's heartbeat was growing stronger, and for just one minute she thought she could see the people around her, thought she could name one of them.
But it slipped away, and her eyes closed.
* * *
He could not remember when he had last slept. His last meal was a far–distant memory. His last drink was.... an illusion. Simple luxuries now escaped him. A conversation about nothing. A moment with a friend. The touch of one he loved.
Captain John Sheridan remembered all these things, but had put them all aside, not without some regret. It was necessary. The fate of humanity was at stake.
There were times when he dreamed, and he recalled each and every dream with crystal clarity in the morning. He dreamed he had awakened from a deep sleep, and been unable to move. Arms, legs, fingers, neck.... all were sealed shut. He could not breathe, could not move, could not scream for help.
He had lain like that for hours, maybe years, until someone came. It was Delenn, and the smile his mouth could not give expression to showed in his eyes. She was dressed in white and gold, and she had never looked more beautiful. She gently laid her finger on his forehead, and he could move again. He could reach up and touch her.
And then he always awoke, unshed tears in his eyes.
He remembered very little of what had happened after that last, terrible moment on the bridge of the Parmenion. He remembered the burst of light as his world exploded, and he remembered waking in a hospital on Kazomi 7, unable to move. Something had happened in between, he knew, but he could not recall what. A soft whisper, a voice speaking words he could not understand.
The months after that had been a blur. Delenn had been there, and David, but he could not remember much of what they had said or done. He seemed to recall meeting his father, although whether that had been true or just a dream he did not know. Delenn had told him it was a dream.
Then he had been awakened and been able to move, and he had known what to do. Some things became.... unimportant, while others filled his vision entirely. Delenn had been at the forefront of his mind always, but she had died on a distant, dead world, callously murdered, and he had been left with nothing but revenge.
He had to free his people from the taint of the Shadows, and he had to avenge Delenn's death. He had to end this whole war, and destroy the Shadows altogether. Over three years since the Second Line. That was long enough.
But other things seemed so.... unimportant now.
"Captain," said one of his techs. He could not remember her name, if he had ever known it. "There's a message for you. It's on a top secret, coded channel, and audio–only."
"Oh? Put it through to my private channel." On an Earthforce ship he would have used an earphone and perhaps a sub–vocal microphone to keep this conversation secret. On a Dark Star, that was all unnecessary. Somehow the conversation was held entirely telepathically. He had no idea how, and nor did he care. That was one of the things that was unimportant.
--- This is Sheridan. ---
--- Good morning, or afternoon, or whatever it is where you are. --- Sheridan had a feeling this was the true voice of whoever was talking to him. Theoretically he could hear a conversation in any voice the other person chose, from a Yorkshire accent to American Deep South, but there was something natural about the formal, polite tone that made him think this was genuine.
--- Do I know you? ---
--- You probably know of me. Suffice it to say, I am a friend. ---
--- Oh? And I'm expected to believe that? --- There was a distant crackling noise, one he couldn't quite identify.
--- It is a wise man who is suspicious in times of trouble. It is a fool who disbelieves everything he is told. I am your friend. We share similar.... associates, you and I. ---
--- Where are you contacting me from? ---
--- I am on Proxima. I.... represent a group of people dissatisfied with the present administration there. We will be ready to act when your ships arrive. We may be of some assistance to you in your present campaign. ---
--- And my.... associates will support this? ---
--- Indeed they will. We have been preparing for some time. --- There was another voice speaking, trying to get his attention. He couldn't hear exact words. --- However, events here are running away with us, and we may not have much time. It may be advisable for you to conduct your assault on Proxima a little earlier than you had originally planned. ---
--- And I'm expected to trust you? For all I know this could be a trap. I don't even know your name. ---
--- What was that? ---
--- Nothing. Mere.... background interference. Allow me to.... adjust certain settings. There, that should fix it. --- It did. The whispers, the crackling, the voice.... all were gone. --- Now.... what was I saying? ---
--- You were about to give me your name. ---
--- I was? Ah, very well. I am William Edgars. Tell me, Captain, are you ready to listen to me now? ---
Sheridan sat bolt upright in his chair. --- You have my undivided attention, Mr. Edgars. ---
The conversation lasted another few minutes, with the Captain listening far more than he spoke. When it was done, he sat back in his chair, thinking for a few minutes. Then he turned to the tech. "Contact Captain Corwin. Tell him I need to see him at once."
* * *
"I have a bad feeling about this."
Having said this, and not for the first time, Kozorr fell into a deep silence. The holographic image of their destination loomed above them, an ancient warrior, retired, strength brought low by age but still carrying the power of experience and the memories of lost battles.
Babylon 4, as some called it. Anla'Verenn–veni. Lost for over nine centuries and now found again, by Sinoval. Kozorr remembered briefly the Well of Souls and the Vindrizi, and was in little doubt as to how Sinoval had located this last resting place.
But what was he planning? That was the question. There were no ships waiting for them as they bore down on Babylon 4. Of course it would take a sizeable fleet to oppose all the Tak'cha ships, and all of them had come here.
What had he once told Tirivail? Their military might consisted almost entirely of the Storm Dancers clan and the Tak'cha. Over two–thirds of Sonovar's military capability was here, wide open for a trap, and leaving their base of operations fatally vulnerable. Of course Sonovar and Takier had remained behind, but somehow that only added to Kozorr's worries. He smelled Forell's touch behind this.
Where was Sinoval? Just what was he planning? This was a perfect place for a trap.
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