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

by Gareth D. Williams

  Third, there were the emotions of victory. Relief and euphoria of those who still lived, coupled with sadness and loss for those who did not. There was the pain of the injured, the hope of the survivors.

  Their commander, victorious again, felt none of these things. He felt only fear. Fear for the future he had helped to create.

  This was the second time he had called upon the Shadows for aid. A second favour he now owed them. This deal had been secret so far, although only just. Word would surely reach the Kha'Ri now, maybe even with proof. Once might be held to be coincidence.... twice....

  That was for the future. For now, there was only the present. The reclamation of Tolonius 7.

  His commscreen chimed, and he answered it. He was relieved to see the face of Captain Carn Mollari looking at him. "Captain," he said. "What is the state of the Valerius?" Carn's ship had taken heavy damage.

  "Badly damaged, but it can be repaired, Lord–General. Engines are still functioning well. We have begun to ship our soldiers down to the surface as per your orders."

  "Good, Captain." There was a pause. "Is there anything else?"

  "Those ships, Lord–General.... the ones that came to our aid. I have seen those ships before. I thought I saw them when the Narns attacked our home, but now I am certain.

  "Why would Shadow ships help us, Lord–General?" His voice carried a faint hint of accusation, as if he knew.

  "It is not our place to question," he replied, wishing he could have phrased it better. He was a soldier, not a silvery–tongued courtier, and yet he wished he could come up with some excuse, some explanation. Anything. There were a million lies he could have crafted to disguise the truth of this deal, but he could not think of any.

  All he could think of was the truth.

  They offered to help me. They asked for nothing in return but a simple favour. That was all. Narn ships were going to attack our homeworld. Maybe we would win, and maybe they would, but either way, people would die. Good people, with families, with children.

  This way, we would live, and only the Narns would die. They are our enemies. They attacked our home. They attacked and invaded our colonies.

  I will bear the burden of this deal I have made. I, and no other.

  Carn paused, and then nodded. "As you say, Lord–General. I will report again when word reaches me of the status on the ground."

  "Do so." The screen went blank and Marrago sat back. He felt tired. He wanted to sit and rest, to feel the warmth of the sun on his face, and to sip brivare until the sun set.

  Instead he rose to his feet and began to co–ordinate the ground offensive.

  * * *

  "Take it."

  Kozorr said nothing, merely looking. Kats could see the emotions flashing through his eyes. She had thought about this moment for months, ever since she had learned of his betrayal, after his failed attempt to destroy the Well of Souls. She had thought about and planned for this moment, but now that it was here, she had no idea what to say.

  "Take it," she said again, trying to maintain the dignity and conviction in her tone and bearing. "It is your weapon. Take it."

  "No," he said at last. "NO! Why did he bring you here?"

  "He did not. I came myself, knowing you would be here."

  "You should not be here."

  A light sparkled in one of her eyes, briefly, and then it was gone. "That is exactly what he said."

  "Then we can agree on something. You should not be here, my.... Whatever Sinoval is planning, he should not have included you."

  "I am capable of looking after myself," she said flatly. "Besides, I have my protectors. Sinoval did not send me here alone." She stepped back, and held the pike against her side. "If you do not want this, then I shall keep it."

  "No, I.... I never meant to.... I...."

  "Why? Was it always a lie? All of it? Did you mean even a single word of that oath you swore to him?"

  "Yes! I did.... then. But.... look at me, my lady. I am a pathetic cripple who cannot even stand unaided. Sinoval should have left me to die in the Hall, and then I would at least be reborn as a warrior, not forced to live on as.... as this! Look at me!

  "How can you love such a one as this?"

  Kats trembled slightly. In her darkest thoughts she had suspected that she might be to blame for his treachery. After all, had she not been captured by Sonovar and his Tak'cha allies, Kozorr would never have been taken trying to rescue her, would never have offered his life for hers, and never turned.

  "How could you love such a one as this? Compared to Sinoval, how could you love me? I had to prove myself worthy of you, my lady. I had to prove myself better than him, at anything, or at everything.... and the only way to do that was to defeat him."

  She shook her head, trying to find the words. "You never...." she began, but then she coughed. "You never needed to...."

  She suddenly blinked, and everything was gone. Kozorr, the altar, the room, the darkness. Everything was gone, save only her.

  There was a column of light and a room of darkness. A soft shuffling noise could be heard, and the harsh rasping of hoarse breath. Her heart caught in her chest, and she let out an involuntary cry. She knew where she was.

  "Forgiveness is a fine virtue, is it not?" whispered the hated voice she had heard every night in her dreams for years. "To forgive those who have wronged you, betrayed you."

  "No," she whispered to herself, sinking to her knees and curling into a ball. "This is not real. You are dead. You are gone. You are...."

  "I am always here. Whenever you close your eyes, whenever you dare to feel yourself safe.... I will be there, traitress. In the eyes of another, in the movements of one you love, or one you hate. You will look at others, and I will be in each and every one of them.

  "And when you are alone.... look into the shadows. I will be there. I will never let you rest.... You have not yet learned my lesson, bitch.... and you will not be free of me until you have."

  "No...." she whispered again. "What lesson? What did you teach me.... apart from pain and humiliation? What could you teach me?"

  "What else?" he said. "You do not understand. I forgave you."

  "No.... you didn't. If you did then.... then...." Enlightenment dawned. She opened her eyes and rose slowly. He was out there somewhere, shuffling in the darkness. "You did not forgive me, Kalain. You never did. You used the word as a weapon, bludgeoning me into a mass of pity and sorrow. You taught me how not to forgive someone, how to say the word but keep the bitterness and the hatred inside."

  "You are learning. Maybe there is some intelligence inside that weak, less–than–animal brain of yours."

  "I have been dreaming about you for two years, Kalain, and I have been hating you all that time. No longer. I forgive you, Kalain. Whatever your reasons, whatever your pain, it is over and done. I forgive you. Maybe that is nothing but a word, but I know this. I will never dream about you again."

  "I think you will."

  "No. You are wrong, but I do not hate you for it. I pity you. I am sorry for you. Goodbye."

  Her pain faded, and she was where she had been. Kozorr was still kneeling on the floor in front of her, his head bowed. Gently, Kats held his pike out to him again. "Take it," she said softly. "It is yours."

  He looked up, unshed tears in his eyes. "I am sorry," he said.

  "I forgi...."

  There was a burst of pain in her back and she fell with an anguished cry. Kozorr's pike slipped from her fingers as she fell.

  "You should be more careful," said Tirivail, as she looked at Kozorr. "But then so should she."

  * * *

  There was a strange feeling in the air. Trace did not like it. He could not be sure exactly what was going to happen, but he could feel that things were changing. Something big was going down.

  He didn't like that. In his younger days he had liked the feel of Change sweeping the world. It had provided plenty of opportunities for someone with the will and the ambition. Now.... he was co
ntent, for the time being. It was a time for consolidation, gradually strengthening his empire, and setting things in motion for the future. Change would disrupt that.

  He had been in a bad mood all day, unable to shake this feeling. His patron had not been in touch with him for days. Allan had sent word that someone had arranged for the murder charges against Smith to be dropped. That would take a lot of influence. Maybe even as far as Welles himself.

  Actually, that did not bother Trace so much. He had been using corruption as a weapon for so long it would be a little hypocritical to complain when it was used against him. Besides, Smith had just.... put off the inevitable. Nothing more. He had swapped an easy and comfortable twenty years or so in jail for a very difficult and uncomfortable few days in a dark room and an unmarked grave in a construction site.

  Well, that was, as soon as he showed up. Smith was in hiding at the moment, but that wouldn't last forever. Trace had men out looking for him. Smith had killed Nelson, and that wasn't the sort of thing that could be forgiven.

  And of course, where Smith was, you would find that knock–out telepath hanging around with him. She was worth a fortune all by herself.

  Trace rose to his feet and walked to the window. The air inside the dome seemed to be crackling. He could see people milling about on the streets, uncertain and nervous. They could sense something was going to happen as well. Even the ignorant, blind, stupid sheep who inhabited Sector 301 could feel that something was wrong.

  There was a knock at his door. "Go away!" he snapped irritably. He didn't feel like company.

  Instead, the door opened. Trace turned angrily. It was Roberts, who was jostling to take Nelson's place as right–hand man. Based on his natural skills and charisma, he had a long way to go.

  "I told you to go away."

  "There's someone wants to have a word," Roberts replied. "She said it was important."

  "Well, it can wait."

  "Beggin' pardon, boss. You'll want to hear this."

  Trace sighed, and then pondered for a moment. Something was going to happen. This could be it. "Send her in. Oh, and Roberts.... if I didn't want to hear this, I'll expect your kneecaps in the post tomorrow, understand?"

  "You'll want to hear this, boss. Believe me."

  Roberts stepped back and let a young woman through. Trace looked at her, returning to his chair and sitting down. She looked familiar, but he was damned if he could place her. She was attractive enough, he guessed, if nothing special. "What can I do for you, Miss...?"

  "Rosen," she said, sitting down opposite him. "Janice Rosen."

  Now he remembered her. She ran some sort of clinic somewhere, looking after the poor and ill. A pathetic, bleeding–heart, failed doctor who didn't know when to let the terminally worthless die in the gutter where they belonged. However, she paid her protection money on time, and so Trace didn't really care what she did.

  "So, what can I do for you, Miss Rosen?"

  "Someone came to our clinic two nights ago. A man and a woman. They were bringing someone in, someone quite ill."

  "So? That happens in medical clinics, doesn't it?"

  "We don't get people like this in. I didn't recognise the woman, but I'd seen the man on the vids. He was that war hero, the one who retired. Dexter Smith was the name, although he didn't use it." Trace sat forward. Now he was interested.

  "Anyway, I didn't see the person they brought in, not for a while anyway. I wondered at first why they didn't go to a regular hospital up–sector somewhere. Then I saw who it was they brought in.

  "It was her. Delenn."

  "Delenn is locked up in some military hospital," Trace snorted.

  "It was her, I'm sure of it. It's got to be her. She had a mild fever and was in quite deep shock. But it was her. She had the.... the headbone and everything."

  "Is she still there?"

  "Yes. She's recovering, and she's awake most of the time now, but I told Captain Smith she wouldn't be able to move for another couple of days.

  "He doesn't suspect anything, and no one else knows she's there. Well, no one apart from Bo. He runs that pub. He's the one who sent them to the clinic. As soon as I saw who she was, I knew I had to do something. I couldn't go to Security. That would mean they'd find out about my clinic and shut us down. You were the only person I could think of."

  "What about that oath of yours? The one to treat all patients the same?"

  "I'll treat everyone who needs it, yes. I don't ask who my patients are, and I think everyone deserves a second chance. I'll look after people wanted by Security, the lost, the alone, criminals, anyone. Everyone deserves medical care. Everyone deserves to be looked after.

  "But she's killed billions of people. She killed my mother. I just.... I just had to do something. I had to tell someone. You'll.... be able to handle it, right?"

  "I will indeed," Trace said with a smile. "You did the right thing. Go back to your clinic and pretend that nothing happened. I'll.... get things sorted out. Don't worry about anything."

  "Thank you," she said, smiling. "I knew you would take care of things."

  She left, and Trace waited for a few moments after the door closed before he began to laugh. This was what he had been feeling. This was what was going to happen.

  This was his chance to get rid of Smith, to get his hands on that telepath, and to do a major service to the public at the same time. Delenn was the bad guy after all, wasn't she? R'Gov might say all kinds of things about a fair trial, but Delenn didn't deserve one of those. Pit justice would be more than enough to deal with her.

  Roberts entered. "She's gone, boss."

  "I know. Roberts...." Trace paused, thinking about the people outside. Poor, pathetic, deluded sheep, the lot of them. Brainless and worthless, easily led.

  "There's something the people of Sector Three–o–one should know. Something I want you to tell them...."

  * * *

  Captain Francis Xavier DeClercq knew his reputation full well. For almost fifteen years it had been with him. A coward. A coward who had run while better men than him had stayed to fight the Minbari, and had died doing so. He still lived while better men then him had been dead for fifteen years.

  He wanted to explain, to justify what he had done, but these days he could not, not even to himself.

  Besides, it hardly mattered. The only people who might have understood were dead. All dead. Not just those who fell at Vega 7, but those who had fallen since. General Franklin, Captain Maynard, Captain Hiroshi, countless others, all their faces and names blurring into one.

  All dead, and he still lived. He was still standing on the bridge of a ship that some people said he had no right to command.

  His crew had been a little sceptical when they heard who was to be their commanding officer. A good number of them had requested a transfer, but some had stayed. Either they did not believe the stories, or they did not care. In either case they had served him, the Saint–Germain and Earthforce well in the months the ship had been operational. They had undertaken numerous missions, and succeeded.

  Never once had they run.

  And nor would they run now.

  General Ryan had told them all what was happening. Long–distance probes had picked up the approach of the Alliance ships. For some reason known only to themselves they had abandoned their inroads towards the Vega system and were making directly for Proxima. There seemed little sense in this. Their approach would be clearly seen for hours before they could arrive. Defences, preparations, everything would be set up. There was the possibility that enemies might be brought around behind them. They had abandoned their victories in Vega.

  It was seemingly the work of a madman, but DeClercq knew Sheridan's reputation. He was no madman.

  The Saint–Germain had been sent ahead to scout out the numbers and deployment of the Alliance fleets. The hyperspace probes, tethered to the beacon signals, had given vague details, but the Saint–Germain had sensor arrays centuries in advance of anything humanity could
come up with. Their allies, the Shadows, had lent their sensor technology to the Saint–Germain just as they had lent their weapons and defences to the De'Molay and the Dark Thunder.

  They had been able to track the oncoming fleet without ever being noticed by them. Or so they had thought. DeClercq remembered with a moment's panic how Ensign Morgan had turned to him and said, "They know we're here."

  It was impossible. No ships could sense the Saint–Germain from this far away, in hyperspace. Not human ships, nor Narn, nor Drazi, nor Minbari.

  But these ships were not human ones, nor Narn, nor Drazi, nor Minbari. They were the new ships, the ones that had fought at Beta Durani and proved so deadly there.

  The Saint–Germain had managed to escape, slipping into eddies and pockets of hyperspace, moving far from the beacon paths. Another ship would have got lost, but their navigational systems were able to negotiate the dark formlessness of hyperspace with stunning ease.

  The border between dimensions opened, and the Saint–Germain slipped out into normal space. The De'Molay, the Dark Thunder and the Morningstar were waiting. DeClercq had dispatched the information he had gathered. The fleet approaching was huge, almost every Alliance ship available. This was against all tactical logic, and it troubled him. Sheridan was reckless, yes, but never foolish.

  There was something all of them were missing, but in spite of voicing his concerns to Ryan, Tikopai and Barns, and in spite of pondering it for the hours they were waiting, he still could not see it.

  The nearby probes had picked up the Alliance fleet. They were making no effort at all to hide their approach.

  DeClercq sat forward. He would not run. Not this time. Proxima was not Earth, but it was their home, and he would not abandon it.

  A million jump gates opened, and the war fleet of the United Alliance appeared in the skies above Proxima 3. Space shimmered, and the Shadows were there to meet them.

  * * *

  We do not understand where we have failed the Z'ondar. We acted in what we believed to be his best interests. But we must accept his words, even if we do not comprehend them.... and we will hope that some day.... we will be able to make amends for the sin we do not understand.