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

by Gareth D. Williams

  The door was already open and he stepped inside, his eyes looking around at the shadowed room before him. It was not how he had imagined it, but the mark of reality hung over the chamber and he knew this was what he had sought.

  He stepped forward and saw the altar at the far side of the room. A curiously un–Minbari design, but the markings on the black stone were clearly those of mourning. There was no body there of course, but there never had been. Parlonn's body had never been recovered from Z'ha'dum, where he had fallen in mortal combat with his friend and blade–brother Marrain.

  Still, it was here, in this room, that an effigy of Parlonn had been placed, and Valen had spoken words about his former friend and bitter enemy. A quiet funeral ceremony had been held here, the last time Marrain had stood beside Valen as a friend and ally.

  Kozorr limped to the altar itself and touched the black stone. He knew what it represented, and when he closed his eyes he could see Valen standing behind him, Marrain at his side. Valen's speech at Parlonn's funeral had been erased from all the histories, as had nearly happened to the records of the event itself. There were many in the religious caste who found Valen's eulogy to one who had betrayed him a betrayal in itself. They of course had missed the point entirely.

  "All of us can find redemption, yes?" Kozorr whispered as he looked at the black altar. "You forgave one who had wronged you, and so you eased the pain of his betrayal."

  He picked out his pike and extended it slowly. Parlonn's pike had been recovered and had lain here with the effigy. What had happened to it after that.... no one was entirely sure.

  He blinked slowly, and for one moment he could see himself there, Valen standing before him, a crowd of mourners assembled, each one remembering not Parlonn, but others who had fallen in this war. He could see them, Derannimer, Nemain, Nukenn, Rashok....

  And Marrain himself, furious eyes staring at each and every one there and judging them, and to each one his eyes said 'you are not worthy of his legacy'.

  Valen started to speak, but as the first word left his mouth he turned his head, and he seemed to be looking directly at Kozorr.

  Kozorr blinked again, and took a slow step backwards. The image of the past faded and all was dead and shadows again. He trembled at the.... the reality of what he had seen, and as he took another step back his weak leg betrayed him and he fell, body striking the ground hard and his pike rolling from his grasp.

  There was a soft clatter as it hit the ground and rolled away. Three seconds later, it stopped. Someone bent down and picked it up.

  Tears of frustration and pain in his eyes, Kozorr managed to make it to his knees. He looked up, and his eyes widened.

  Kats held his pike out towards him.

  * * *

  Marrago had acquired many skills throughout his long years as a soldier, and one of these was how to read a battle. It was a skill all good generals sought to cultivate, but it was one that was impossible to learn, in his estimation. It was a matter of instinct.

  As he watched the formations of the Narn defences around Tolonius 7, and his own attacking positions, he knew how it would go. Battles were by their very nature chaotic affairs, but there were patterns that could be seen if you only cared to look hard enough.

  Marrago was thinking about his soldiers. He was thinking about their wives and families and children. He was thinking about all the dead that would follow this battle if matters continued as they were now.

  And he turned his gaze to the drawer wherein lay the Shadow orb. He remembered the Drakh's words. "When you need them.... touch this and think the words. They will come."

  He had seen the military might of the Shadows. He had seen their strength and power first–hand. They were a match for the Narns, for whatever defences they hoped to erect.

  But the cost of their bargain. Another 'favour' owed to the Drakh's dark masters. The first had not yet been paid. He did not like to think what payment might be required this time.

  He saw one of his warships destroyed, blazing in flames under an onslaught of Narn ships.

  These were his people. This was his army. Tolonius 7 was a world he had been charged to protect. There were almost a billion Centauri lives on that world, a world ruled by their most hated enemy.

  Was the cost of a favour from the Shadows really so high?

  He shook the thought from his head and sat forward, barking orders to his captains. A gap had opened in their lines, a gap the Narns were seeking to exploit. It had to be closed. Carn heard the orders and brought his Valerius around to block it. Marrago smiled. Carn was a fine soldier. Londo should be proud of him.

  The Valerius came under heavy fire. Marrago could see the Narn were focussing their efforts on that weak spot in the lines. It was an old technique, first used by one of his ancestors at the invasion of the Beta system. In other circumstances, Marrago might have been flattered at its adoption by the Narns.

  The Valerius was fighting back, supported by two other capital ships. For a moment they seemed to be holding the line.

  Then another Narn cruiser appeared, striking out at the Valerius' forward weapon systems. It staggered back, and blows rained down upon it from all sides. The other ships had seen the danger and were moving forward to help protect the flagship, but the Narns were capitalising on its weakness.

  Carn was a good soldier. He was the nephew of Marrago's oldest friend. He read Minbari poetry, liked to paint landscapes and was madly infatuated with a young noblewoman of the Court.

  Marrago leapt to his feet and ran to the drawer. Pulling it open he picked up the Shadow orb. It seemed to become warmer in his hands, as if it had been expecting him.

  "I need you," he whispered. "Come!"

  The very instant he said those words, space shimmered and the Shadows were there.

  After that, the battle was a foregone conclusion.

  * * *

  They were here, coming near. Zarwin and....

  No, not Zarwin. Zarwin was dead, wasn't he? He must be.

  "Death," Marrain whispered, standing in the shrine to the Z'ondar. He remembered the last time he had been here, just after Zarwin had been banished.

  "Death," he said again.

  That was all. That was the meaning of life, the point, the focus. Ever and only death.

  And only he understood. No, that was not true. Sinoval understood. He trusted him. Trust.... that was a rare feeling. Foolishness, of course, but welcoming as well.

  There was the sound of footsteps outside. Marrain was alone, waiting for the visitors. Sinoval had wanted to leave some of his guards here, but Marrain had refused. A handful of guards would not help if all the Tak'cha chose to attack, and more than that could not be spared from protecting Sinoval's pretty worker.

  Besides, guards might get in the way of the glorious death that was coming.

  Or was it? Where was glory in death without a glorious life behind it? Sinoval had said something along those lines, but for a moment Marrain was a thousand years in the past, in the middle of a debate between Parlonn and Valen.

  "There is no glory save to die in the name of your lord!" Parlonn had cried.

  "Ah, but dying is easy, Parlonn. Living in the name of your lord is so much harder. And so much more worthwhile."

  Valen had been a fool, or had he? A thousand years on and he was still remembered, still revered, still worshipped. While what of Parlonn, what of Marrain? Traitors both. Betrayers and oath–breakers.

  "Here," said a voice. "Here is our shrine."

  Marrain straightened and was ready as the first Tak'cha guards entered the shrine. Behind them came a figure who was obviously their leader. He carried a long staff, crafted in homage - or was it mockery? - of Valen's fabled Grey Staff.

  "Welcome," Marrain said softly. He stepped forward. "It has been a long time."

  * * *

  It was an impressive sight, there was no doubt about it. Whatever else might be said about the Dark Star ships, they looked suitably awesome.

&nb
sp; And they were not alone. Supported by Narn cruisers, Brakiri ships, Drazi Sunhawks, vessels from the Llort, the Vree, the Abbai, a true alliance of races, gathered together to save one of their own from their own leaders.

  There had been no speech to mark the beginning of the journey to Proxima. Corwin had passed the instructions on to the various captains. Most had objected, pointing out the sudden change of plan, the dangers involved, the fact that it would be impossible to hide their intentions, and that they would surely be expected.

  Corwin knew all this, and he shared every one of their concerns, but somehow he managed to fill them with a false sense of confidence. The Captain knew what he was doing. Corwin supposed Sheridan was not the Captain any more. He was the General now.

  He remembered an old tradition of John's. When he had taken on command of a new vessel, he had given a speech to his new crew. He had not done that on taking command of the Dark Star 1. Corwin had not done that either when he had been made Captain of the Dark Star 3, the Agamemnon.

  But now as he looked around at his crew, many of whom he knew well, many of whom had served with him on the Parmenion, he felt the need to say something. The Dark Stars had a mix of races as their crews, formed from the armies of the League worlds and G'Kar's Rangers. The Dark Star 3, however, was almost all human, refugees from Clark, those who had been on the Parmenion and chosen to stay behind after its destruction. They were his people, his crew, and he felt he should say something.

  "What we are going to do.... will be dangerous," he said, choosing his words carefully. He hated speaking in public. "This is not Earthforce. This is not as it was in the days before the war. We are not fighting to defend Earth, for Earth is long gone.

  "We are fighting for our people. Humanity's leaders have made a destructive and a fatal bargain. They have acted out of fear, and ambition, and they will bring all humanity down with them when they fall. It is up to us to prevent that, to save us all from that bargain.

  "The fight will not be easy, but nothing worthwhile ever is. I cannot promise you victory. I cannot promise riches or happiness or salvation. What I can promise you is this:

  "After today, we will never be exiles again. We will retake Proxima. We will reclaim our Government. We will reclaim our people. We will reclaim our home.

  "We will never again be lost and alone.

  "We are going home. For good."

  And with those words the Agamemnon joined the rest of the Dark Star fleet, heading for Proxima.

  Chapter 4

  Where are they, the players in the great game of kings and destinies and nations? Where are they all as the forces of destiny converge on Proxima 3? Once, over two years ago, a fleet descended on this world, this last bastion of hope, intent on destruction, on annihilation, on genocide. They were defeated, cast back, driven away.

  Now a fleet comes once more, and once more they will be met on the outskirts of the system. And once more, as before, the fates of entire peoples will be in the balance.

  The leader of humanity, President William Morgan Clark, stands still and ready in his private office. For years he has been planning this, moving with the approval of the alien that shares his body and his soul. He has been preparing for his greatest defeat, and humanity's greatest victory.

  Ambassador David Sheridan is with him, realising at last things he has suspected, but never been able to prove. There is a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, the awareness of experience that tells him his opponent has a hidden card up his sleeve, and not knowing if it is an ace or a joker.

  There is one person who could have stopped this, one who has been playing his own game, working for the survival of humanity. But he is not there. He is lying in one of his own cells, his body beaten and battered by his own security guards. Mr. Welles feels the end coming, and he despairs.

  In an old building, a centre for business and commerce, two men walk into an area few people know exist. That which they have been planning for so long is coming to pass, and they must be ready. They must also be secure. They know about the firestorm that will soon engulf Proxima, and they also know that they must be made safe from it. Humanity must be guided past this flashpoint, into the future.

  Byron feels something stir in his mind, something beginning to wake and rouse.

  In a hospital for the poor, the lost, the abandoned and the damned, one who is none of these things half–sleeps, half–wakes, talking to someone she hardly knows. Delenn thinks she can hear a heart beating, slowly, softly, quietly, echoing off the dark walls of this place that is a haven of light in a sea of darkness. Her companion knows this, but he thinks they are safe there.

  Somewhere else in Sector 301, a man sits at his desk and thinks about the future. He is dreaming of power, of ultimate power. He is dreaming of crushing his enemies, for what else is power for?

  Janice Rosen is having a crisis of conscience. She is a doctor, taught and trained to give healing and succour to all who require it. But she is also a human who has seen her race devastated and terrified by the woman who lies in one of her beds. For hours Janice Rosen struggles with her conscience, until she finally decides on a course of action.

  General Edward Ryan is heading for a meeting with people he knows he will have to send to their deaths.

  * * *

  General Edward Ryan was a soldier. He was also a member of the Resistance Government of Humanity, a position he had inherited after his predecessor, General William Hague, had put a PPG in his mouth. There were times when Ryan felt like doing the same.

  He had found a way round this, but he sometimes wondered if the price of keeping going was worse than if he just stopped going altogether.

  He ignored everything. He forgot about the things he had seen in the Government; the dirty dealings, the alliances signed with alien races who made his flesh creep. He ignored the increasing number of soldiers suffering from psychiatric illness as a result of being on the new ships. He tried to blank out the dreams and whispers he knew followed him whenever he was on the Morningstar. He forgot the names and faces of those he had buried or lost. Philby, lost in some foolish attack at Epsilon 3; Walker Smith, killed at Beta Durani; Dexter Smith, unable to bear the constant stress; General Hague. And these were only in the last three years. There were over fifteen years worth of dead faces he tried to ignore.

  All he could see was his duty. He was a soldier. It was his duty to obey the orders of his President. That was it. Nothing else.

  He looked at the three other people in this room, the three people who represented the greatest hope for the protection of the human race. He wondered how they coped with the things they had seen. What drove them forward?

  Captain Francis Xavier DeClercq of the Saint–Germain was sitting quietly, elbows resting on the table, fingers steepled in front of his face. Ryan had a fairly good idea what drove him. For years he had fought against accusations of cowardice. At a time when experienced officers had been as rare and as valuable as gold dust, DeClercq had been overlooked again and again. Ryan's struggle to get him appointed captain of the Saint–Germain had been the hardest he had fought since the Minbari.

  But his faith had been rewarded. The Saint–Germain had been a great success. Unlike the other ships in the fleet, it was a scouting and exploration vessel. It had carried out hidden sorties into Minbari space. It had found abandoned worlds and brought back vital technology.

  But now it was needed here. All the ships were. DeClercq did not seem angry or worried by his recall to defend Proxima. He looked.... strangely at peace, with the world and with himself.

  Ryan shifted his gaze to the figure next to him. Captain Bethany Tikopai was toying with the end of her long black braid, seemingly deep in thought. Ryan also thought he knew what motivated her. She had a daughter, a teenager now, born around the time that Earth was dying.

  Ryan sometimes wished he had children. They were something to fight for. Simple, unequivocal. They were the new generation, the future. They had to be protected
, and that was that.

  The De'Molay had only recently come off the production lines, and Tikopai had only just finished assembling her crew. Both ship and crew were untested in full combat, but they should be fine. The De'Molay represented the height of Shadow technology, much more so than the Morningstar. It was said by the designers and technicians to be all but invincible.

  Ryan was glad he was on the Morningstar.

  The third person present was not sitting. Captain Jerry Barns was standing just behind his chair, arms folded high over his chest. He was a tall man, with an impassive, alert expression. Ryan could not read him at all, but his skill in battle was well known. His Dark Thunder had been operational for some months now, and had been tested in numerous skirmishes with raiders. Barns radiated a calm demeanour that offset the more.... swashbuckling tendencies of his first officer, Commander Ramirez. The two of them worked well together.

  Ryan sat forward and laid his reports on the desk. Three pairs of eyes turned to look at him.

  "Proxima needs us," he said simply. It was all that needed to be said.

  * * *

  The battle was over, leaving behind only three things.

  First, there was the debris of the Narn ships, floating in space. Almost the entire fleet had been destroyed, blown out of the sky. The Centauri ships had taken some of course, but most of them had fallen to the Shadows, the strange aliens who appeared from nowhere and killed in a near–instant. One of the Shadow ships had been damaged, but nothing more. They had disappeared just as the final Narn ships fled.

  Second, there was the prospect of the ground war still to come. That would be won, Lord–General Marrago knew, but only at great cost in life. The Narns had occupied the colony for months, and would still have substantial numbers of soldiers based there. The Centauri would be able to mount an uprising, and they had already won air control, but it would still take time before the colony was completely theirs again.