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

by Gareth D. Williams

  Mr. Edgars stepped forward, looking up at the still form of Byron. There was a low humming noise, which had been growing louder and louder. Lights began to sparkle around the wall, illuminating Byron's body. His eyes flicked open, and from deep within them came a brighter and brighter–glowing light.

  "Mr. Byron," said Edgars, stepping back and breathing in sharply. "This is your wake–up call."

  Above them all, the Shadow ship continued to fire.

  * * *

  Smith moved first, instincts honed by back–alley brawls and Earthforce training. He darted in front of Delenn as the first rock was thrown. She stumbled as he pushed her back, but the rock missed her.

  "It is her!" cried one voice.

  "I told you so," said Trace. "It's her. He's the one that hid her here."

  Some of the crowd moved forward, and Smith gently tried to push Delenn back into the doorway. She would not move.

  "Stop this!" Smith cried. "This isn't...."

  "Oh, but it is!" snapped Trace. "She's Minbari. She's Delenn herself. We all know who she is, what she's done! You're trying to protect her!" He turned to face the crowd. "The big war hero here would rather protect the Minbari than fight them!"

  There was another forward surge, and another projectile was thrown. It struck Smith on the shoulder, and he grunted. "Go," he said to Delenn. "I'll try and hold them off.... as much as I can."

  "No," she said softly.

  "What? They'll kill you, for God's sake. Just go!"

  "I know," she said. Gently she pushed him aside, and he stumbled. She walked forward and stood to face the crowd. They stopped, puzzled. "I am sorry," she said to them simply. "I am sorry."

  "Sorry?" cried one. "Sorry?" said another. "That ain't enough!" "Not by half!"

  "I know," she said again. "Words can never undo what has been done. They cannot restore the dead to your side, nor erase all the years of grief. The past can never be changed.

  "But the future can be healed. The past can be remembered, and honoured, and still we can look to the future. I came here to this world, to say this. To say I am sorry."

  There was a stunned silence. Smith turned to look at Trace, and saw confusion in the man's eyes. For a moment, all was still. For one moment the entire crowd paused, and history took a breath.

  And then God blinked.

  Someone threw a stone. It hit Delenn squarely on the leg, and she stumbled. With that, another projectile was launched, a bottle, rocks, cans, rubbish. Smith tried to intervene, but he could do nothing. Delenn fell to the ground as more and more was hurled at her. Countless cuts bled.

  "Wait a minute!" Trace said at last, and the people stopped. Slowly, Delenn tried to rise. Smith went to her and offered her his arm. She leant on him, and for one moment looked into his eyes. Then she bowed her head.

  "Wait a minute," said Trace again. "The Government were going to give her a trial, so they said. Do things proper and by the book, and so should we.

  "But our justice isn't their justice. They've got lawyers, and fancy defences, and diplomatic concerns. We've got none of that here. We've got three–o–one justice, and we'll do this fairly.... but we'll do it our way. Anyone here want to, say, put the evidence for the prosecution, as it were?"

  There was a pause, and Delenn was visibly shaking against Smith. He tried to shepherd her back towards the door, but she would not move.

  "I'll say some things," said someone. The crowd parted, and an old man hobbled forward. Trace's eyes narrowed. Smith turned to look at the emerging figure and made to say something, but the words failed.

  His gait was twisted, one leg dragging along, withered and bent. There were dark burn marks down the side of his face, and one eye was a mass of black scar tissue.

  "You don't know who I am, do you?" he said to Delenn. She said nothing in reply. "Name's Duncan," he said after a while. "Wasn't a soldier, wasn't a scientist or a big fancy diplomat. Just a man who carved things and sold them in the market.

  "Was on a passenger ship, me, my wife, my daughter. Wasn't military or nothing. Your people attacked us, blew it up good and then left us floating in space. Me.... I was lucky, maybe. I got out alive, after all. Only three of us did. Wife and daughter.... well.... That was nine years ago. Been living here ever since, just.... I don't know. Just remembering.

  "Don't hate you or nothing. Just.... wanted to know. Why? Why did you do it all?"

  "It...." Delenn breathed out. "It was a...." She shook. "It was a mistake."

  "Ah," said Duncan. He nodded, and then turned and hobbled back towards the crowd.

  "See!" said Trace. "A mistake? What kind of justification is that? Is that any way to explain all the dead, all the injured, all the lives lost? That's no excuse in my book." He looked at Smith, and the dark light of triumph burned in his eyes.

  "Now, not that I see the point, but these things must be done fairly, I suppose. Does anyone want to speak for her?"

  Smith moved, but Delenn reached out to touch his chest, and he fell back. "I will speak," she coughed. She stepped forward. "I.... am sorry. For everything. For those who died, for those who were hurt, for those who lost their lives and their loves and their souls.

  "And I am sorry for all of you, for all those who have been lost, for those who have walked through the last sixteen years alone and afraid and in darkness.

  "What we did was wrong, and I am sorry. But our people have known loss and grief and darkness just as yours have. They have learned to hate, just like you. This cycle cannot continue. Unless it is ended, both our races will be destroyed. And if it takes one more death to end this.... then that is what must be paid."

  She stepped forward and spread her arms wide. "I came here for many reasons. To explain, to say I was sorry.... but most importantly to end this cycle, to set aside finally the ways of hate and death that have engulfed us all for sixteen years. And if I must die to do that.... then I will die."

  "No!" cried Smith.

  "Then I will die," she said again.

  There was a whispered hush over the crowd. Some shook their heads, some spoke in soft tones to their friends. Some moved forward, brandishing weapons.

  It was Trace who was the first to speak aloud. "Yeah," he said. "You'll die. That's what you deserve, after all. What all your kind deserve."

  "Me, perhaps," she replied. "But not all Minbari. If any of you learn anything from today, learn this. The sins of the one do not carry through to the many."

  "I think we should kill her now," he said. "Just so we don't have to listen to any more Minbari philosophy." There was nervous laughter. Smith moved forward. "And there's just the person to do it," Trace said. "Our executioner, so kindly come forward. Well.... you are going to accept this offer, aren't you? Or are you going to take her part over that of your own people?"

  "No!" Smith cried. "This isn't right."

  "It is right," Delenn said. "I came here to touch people. Maybe I have reached you.... If so, then my death will not be a waste. If just one person takes something good away from this...."

  "I can't do it."

  "You must.... or they will kill you as well, and then my death will not mean anything. You cannot protect me from everything. You have done more than enough for me already, and I thank you for it.... but this you must do."

  "I...."

  "I do not blame you."

  "I'm.... I'm.... sorry."

  "And so am I."

  "Here you are," said Trace, tossing over a PPG. "That'll do it nicely. A bit quick, but then I forgot to bring the nails for a crucifixion, so this will have to do."

  "Damn you," he hissed.

  "Never gonna happen. Why? I'm the good guy, remember. After everything she's done, I can't help but be the good guy. That's a nice feeling. I'll have to be the good guy again."

  "Do it!" cried someone from the crowd. There was half–hearted encouragement, but the fury seemed to have gone out of them.

  "Yes," Trace said, sensing this. "Do it."

  "Go on
," Delenn said. "I am not afraid. If you see John.... No. He knows. I will meet him again."

  "Do it!" cried Trace again.

  Smith raised the weapon.

  Delenn closed her eyes.

  "Do it!"

  He fired.

  Delenn's body fell.

  Chapter 5

  In almost a hundred and fifty years, since telepathy was discovered amongst humans, a wide range of tests had been carried out to determine the extent of the powers, skills and abilities telepaths could possess. The first human encounter with aliens and the discovery that they had telepaths too only heightened the urgency.

  One early theory was that a network of telepaths could be set up to provide completely secret, near–instant communication between any number of strategic locations. Experiments were marginally successful, but the limitation of most telepaths to line–of–sight range ultimately proved too problematic. Similar ideas were later broached regarding telepathic communication in space, when it was discovered that hyperspace extended telepathic range. Here, however, it was lack of knowledge regarding hyperspace itself that caused the problems.

  There were secret reports filed in certain places speculating that certain alien races might be able to utilise telepaths in this fashion. Psi Corps managed to obtain most of these reports.

  William Edgars was no scientist, but he had always possessed a quick mind and a willingness to accept ideas that others would regard as.... unusual, or even impossible. He was also more than willing to listen when it was explained exactly what would be needed of him.

  Telepathic signals did travel better through hyperspace due to the strange properties of that other universe, properties not even the Vorlons understood well. The Vorlons did understand telepaths, however, very well indeed. They understood enough for their purposes.

  All that was needed was a powerful telepath, of any race, at certain key locations in the galaxy, bound to a machine. Vorlon technology was organic, and so better able to siphon and direct telepathic powers than the cold harshness of machinery. Then hyperspace corridors were created, linking these nodes to each other, direct links from one to another, focussed in little pockets. Human technology could not do this, nor could most other races.

  But the Vorlons had the knowledge, the power and the cold–hearted will to do whatever was necessary. They had created telepaths as weapons, and it was as weapons they would be used.

  The effect of this network was to allow telepaths to draw on the powers of other telepaths, building exponentially, the whole far greater than the sum of its parts. With a little proper direction.... the effects could be devastating. Much of Vorlon space had been protected in this manner, but never before had the network been extended outside Vorlon territory.

  Never until now.

  Byron's eyes opened. Light filled him, filled his mind. He had no consciousness now, save a little voice that might once have been his, screaming, a tiny echo in a mass of other screams.

  His body shook as the hyperspace conduit opened behind him, in front of him, all around him. He was the gateway between the two worlds, the minds of a billion telepaths forming the telekinetic shield that protected against the gravity distortion.

  His every muscle burned, stretched beyond breaking–point. His bones shook and were shattered by the stress. His blood boiled. None of that mattered. His mind was all that was important, his body was just a vessel, and now that he had been welcomed into the network, the network itself would be a ready vessel.

  Edgars and Morden watched this, the older man smiling, the younger marvelling.

  "You know what to do," Edgars said.

  Byron did not, but the network did.

  A scream left his mouth, one too high for the humans to hear. But the Vorlons heard it. The Shadows heard it.

  And the Shadows began to die.

  * * *

  It was the Shadow ship that had shattered the dome that felt the wave first. The Shadows had known about their vulnerability to telepaths for a long time and had tried various strategies to counteract this weakness. They had had limited success with some forms of shielding, but they had decided by far the best approach was caution and stealth, and to use force only when absolutely necessary.

  The destruction of the Edgars Building had been absolutely necessary, but unfortunately for the Shadows, and indeed for all humanity, the shields and fortifications had held just long enough.

  The Shadow ship screamed as the full force of the telepathic network tore through it. Its organic shielding was shattered before the sheer power of a million telepathic minds working as one. Every living thing on the ship was driven mad in one terrifying instant, and it fell from the sky.

  Buildings were smashed to mere piles of rubble as the Shadow ship crashed through them. The Edgars Building was already all but destroyed, and as the ship crashed through it the remains were utterly ruined. Again, however, the bunkers held.

  And the telepathic power expanded outwards, tearing up through the skies of Proxima, sensing and targeting the other vessels of the hated Enemy. Byron might have been the focal point for the network in this area, but there were a good number of lesser nodes, points of focus and direction.

  The wave swept onwards, enhanced and directed and shaped.

  And with it came madness and chaos and destruction....

  .... and death.

  * * *

  Captain Bethany Tikopai of the De'Molay caught the feeling that something was very wrong the instant before her ship began to fall apart. There was a brief flicker of light flashing before her eyes, and she blinked, a nagging itch suddenly developing inside her brain.

  She opened her mouth to say something, but was not sure what.

  Then everything collapsed about her. There was a scream, coming from the walls around her, from the floor beneath her feet, from the ceiling above her head. It tore through her mind and her soul and she recoiled from the sheer pain carried within it.

  A terminal mere feet from her exploded, throwing the technician backwards. His body was burned and charred by the time it hit the floor. The lights on the bridge shattered one by one, as more and more terminals tore apart. In the weapons bay all the crew died in one instant of shock, not even realising what was happening as the targeting systems exploded around them and the hull was ripped open as though it were paper.

  The engines were blown apart. The transport tubes collapsed around each other. The navigation systems were filled with white noise and a golden light.

  Captain Tikopai was thrown forward as the ship rocked beneath her. Her head struck the floor and she heard the ship screaming once more before she blacked out.

  The De'Molay hung dead in space.

  * * *

  Her eyes were closed. She might have been sleeping, but it was clear to everyone that she wasn't. She was dead, she must be. Human or Minbari, no one could take a PPG shot at point–blank range to the chest and survive.

  For a moment everyone was still and silent. This was not what any of them had expected. They had come here for revenge on the monster who had killed their families, their friends, their homeworld. They had found a woman who had spoken earnestly of forgiveness and peace and sorrow, and who had gone to her death willingly.

  Smith looked up from Delenn's body, and the only thing he could see was Trace. He was standing back, his arms folded high on his chest, a smug smile on his face. He had won. He had proved his power. He had ended a life that meant nothing to him, and destroyed that of a person he hated.

  "It's good being the hero, i'n't it?" he said. "This must be how you felt, before you threw it all over and decided to become the champion of the down–and–outs."

  "Shut up," Smith hissed. "You don't know anything."

  "No? I know more than you think. I know about power, and about pain, and how anyone will do anything you want of them, if you just push them right. They all wanted her dead, all these people here, and I'm the one who helped them with that.

  "I'm their hero.
"

  "Oh?" said Smith. "I don't think you know them as well as you think."

  Trace prepared to say something, but then he stopped and looked up. There were no warning systems here in the Pit. Why should there be, when no one cared who lived or died here?

  But there were certain instincts, ancient and primaeval, that spoke within all humanity - ancient genetic memories. They spoke of danger.

  "Oh hell," Trace said softly, all the colour draining from his face.

  A good many things happened at once. There were cries of terror from the crowd, angry panic from Trace, and a desperate scuffle to escape, to get away from here, away from the invaders who would surely seek revenge on those who had murdered their leader. There were pleas for forgiveness, prayers to Gods worshipped and Gods ignored.

  The crowd surged forward, trying to move somewhere, anywhere. Smith threw himself on Delenn's body, desperate to protect her now as he had not before. A sharp pain exploded in his leg as someone trod on it. He tried to raise his arms to protect his head, but a foot slammed into the side of his skull, and he was thrown into a world where all he knew was his nightmares.

  * * *

  The Dark Stars had always been slightly.... unusual ships. They were of Vorlon design and manufacture of course, with their systems crafted to be useable by many of the younger races. There were some who were uncomfortable being in them, and some, such as Flight–lieutenant Neeoma Connally, who refused to set foot on one unless absolutely necessary.

  Many however, were beginning to find an odd sense of peace on board a Dark Star. Captain John Sheridan hardly left his flagship at all these days.

  A probable cause of this was the sheer effectiveness of the Dark Stars in combat against the previously superior Shadow ships. Advanced jamming and shielding techniques coupled with powerful weapons systems made the fight much more even.

  But the Dark Stars still held mysteries, and they had certainly never done this before.

  "What the hell?" whispered Corwin.

  For one instant, a mere handful of seconds after Byron began to scream, a brilliant light filled every room of the Dark Star 3 - the Agamemnon. The entire ship was bathed in a pure and perfect rejection of the darkness, and somewhere, in a lost and forgotten place, another scream was added, a slight and almost imperceptible echo of Byron's own. And then another, and then another. But no one heard them.