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

by Gareth D. Williams

  "Well then," said Durano, enunciating clearly and obviously deep in thought. "There are three options. Firstly, this evidence concerning the Shadow involvement is a forgery by the Kha'Ri or others, and this may or may not be known to the Alliance. They may be taken in by the forgery, or they may be in league with the forgers.

  "Secondly, the Shadows may be intervening here, not to assist us in any way, but to sow discord and mistrust between ourselves and the Alliance.

  "And thirdly, someone has made such an alliance with the Shadows, without the knowledge or consent of this body. This alliance may have been made as part of a personal quest for power, possibly a legacy of the Shadow Criers, or may be for purely altruistic reasons, a genuine desire to help our people."

  "Have we been able to examine this evidence?" asked the Empress Timov in her clipped tones. There were several who looked at her uncomfortably. No woman had sat in government for centuries, and she had a most unpleasant habit of saying exactly what she thought.

  "The Alliance have.... ah.... refused to forward us a copy," said Foreign Minister Vir Cotto. "I hope to be able to discuss matters with Ha'Corarm'ah G'Kar and other members of the Council, with the aim of obtaining one."

  "Are they willing to help us uncover the truth behind this?" asked Vitari. "We have been closely linked with them since your ascension, Majesty. Surely there are some there who trust you."

  "There are some there, I believe, who trust me. However, reasons of politics prevent them from working with us except under certain conditions. They desire a military presence in Centauri space, observation teams and various other means of assuring no such alliance exists. I will not under any circumstances compromise our security or our sovereignty, even to people who are meant to be our allies."

  "Then what do you recommend, Majesty?" asked Durano.

  The Emperor looked directly at him. "Durano.... find the truth here. Do whatever you must, talk to whomever you wish. Uncover the truth behind this. Marrago, our plans for further expansion into Narn–held territories will have to be curtailed. The homeworld, Tolonius and Immolan must be defended. Vir, you will have to try to talk some sense into the Alliance.... and Timov, my dear.... trade will be vastly diminished by this. We will have to find another way to provide the necessary income."

  "No problem, Londo darling," she said airily. "Maybe I can sell my internal organs on the black market?"

  He did not laugh. "This meeting is over. These matters are our highest priority. The Centauri people need us all.

  "We must not fail them."

  Marrago's eyes were dark.

  * * *

  "We should have brought some Security along."

  "And told them what?" Welles snapped. It was dark here. It was meant to be, of course. This way it was less likely that anyone would be able to follow Clark's trail. "'Hi, remember me? I'm the one who was arrested a week or so ago for breaking Delenn out of prison. We're going to find the President who's trying to blow up half the planet.' Besides, none of the guards here are my men any longer. Clark will have had a purge, no doubt. And...." He paused.

  "And what?"

  "I've seen how careless you are with other people's lives. The fewer people you have a chance to send to their deaths, the better."

  "You actually believe that, don't you? You're just a child. I don't believe it! Behind all that darkened cynicism, you're a political child. You have no idea how the universe works."

  "Oh, I understand how the universe works all too well. I've just got tired of playing along. Everything's falling apart here quite nicely without my help."

  "Then why are you helping me?"

  "Because.... what Clark's doing is based on a lie. I don't like lies."

  "There's something else, isn't there?"

  "You could say that. There are.... two people who would want me to do something."

  Ambassador Sheridan made as if to say something, but then fell silent. None of this really mattered. It was an intellectual exercise that was irrelevant at the moment. In a way, Welles represented the Shadows' viewpoint - he faced trials and ordeals and emerged strengthened as a result. He would be stronger still if he survived this. He might even recognise the irony in that.

  The darkened corridors continued to loom around him, and he wondered at the manufacture of these escape tunnels. He had never even known of their existence, yet Welles navigated through them with clear precision, despite not being able to see where they were going.

  He felt very alone. For the first time he could recall, he was without his Shadow companions. Clark and his pet Vorlon had killed one, and the other had been destroyed by whatever weapon the Vorlons had unleashed. Even now, Sheridan's head was still pounding with the telepathic scream that rang in his ears. He wondered what they had done, but realised this was not the time for questions. He trusted and believed in his alien allies, and this was how he served them.

  "Here we are," Welles said, stopping by a part of the wall that looked to Sheridan in the dim light to be exactly like the rest of it.

  "How are you so sure?"

  "One of the many wonders of a near–perfect memory. As Security chief I had access to all these maps and studied them very carefully. Unfortunately I don't have the access codes to deactivate the defence grid, although I may be able to delay it for a bit." He paused again, thinking. "Clark knows all this of course. I wouldn't be surprised if he was expecting me to show up."

  Welles touched a small pad and a doorway swung open. A dead body fell out to meet him. The Security officer's face was filled with blood, and a million things crunched inside his body.

  "Of course I've been expecting you," said a voice from inside the room. It was light in there, and as Welles and Sheridan stepped through, Clark was visible, sitting comfortably on the one chair in the room. A mass of bodies decorated the floor. Every one had been cut apart.

  "Was all that necessary?" Welles snarled as he stepped inside.

  "Well, it wouldn't have been if they had agreed to my doing what I have to do. For some reason they were.... not receptive. The security guard even tried drawing a weapon on me.... his President. They all became casualties of war I'm afraid, but it won't matter. Shortly no one will even notice."

  "So.... when were you planning on activating the defence grid?" Welles asked, stepping forward to confront Clark. Sheridan sidled slowly into the corner.

  Clark laughed. "How stupid do you think I am? Do you think I would just be sitting here if there were things still undone? I activated everything seven minutes ago. Oh, I understand you may still be able to delay it, maybe get word to the Alliance ships who will arrive just in time to watch the last act of a falling dictator, turning weapons of destruction on his helpless people. They might even be able to do something, but they'll be too late for anything significant."

  Clark rose to his feet and walked around the desk. "I am a dead man, a walking corpse. Once the Alliance got hold of me.... but no. I have to die here. My new friends have promised me that it will be for a good cause, and I even agree with them. I just wish I could stay behind to watch what all this will achieve. I really would like to see the aftermath of this, but.... ah.... such is life, I suppose.

  "There is just one more thing I have to do." Clark stopped directly in front of Welles. Sheridan began to move slowly towards him.

  "And that is?" asked Welles.

  "Say goodbye."

  There was a sound like a million hearts beating as one, and then a blaze of light. Clark's body literally exploded, and Sheridan heard a million voices shouting in his mind. It took him a moment to realise that they were all Clark screaming. A gust of air strong enough to shatter empires tore into his body and threw him back against the wall. A million things inside his body shattered, and his last sight before unconsciousness was of Welles being similarly broken.

  And in his mind as darkness took him was the mocking, triumphant voice of the Vorlon.

  * * *

  Death. There was a time when Sinova
l would have liked nothing better than to die in battle, surrounded by an army of his enemies, his weapon raised high, his ancestors watching. He had believed he had been born into the wrong time. He belonged in the old days, the days before Valen. He could have been a warlord, a general, a hero. Instead, he tried to restore something of the old days to the new days.

  And now he realised just how wrong that was.

  He swivelled on the balls of his feet and darted back out of reach of a thrust. One of his attackers was trying to creep up behind him, another to flank his other side, while the other two, including Tirivail, came at him from the front. They were all good, all well–trained and skilled.

  Had there been nine, as he had foreseen, he would probably have fallen, and that had been his plan. This whole fight did not matter. He was nothing but a distraction. He had intended to draw Sonovar and his allies away to let Marrain talk to the Tak'cha. Then Sonovar's military might would collapse, and this would be as it always should have been: Minbari against Minbari.

  Stormbringer moved with a sentience of its own, a weapon crafted to reflect its bearer, a personification of the dark side of Sinoval's own personality. His dark side now isolated and drawn apart, Stormbringer moved fluidly and smoothly.

  One of his attackers went down, his pike smashed aside. He was not dead. Sinoval would not kill his own. Not again.

  Minbari did things in threes. Sinoval had killed his own kind twice: Shakiri and Sherann. He would not do so a third time.

  There was a burst of pain in his side, and he shifted his bearing to confront the one who had flanked him. In the darkness neither of them could see the other, but Sinoval had a lifetime's instinct moving him. There were noises and smells and.... a sense of where his attackers were. Two blows and the warrior fell. Spinning and leaping back, Sinoval narrowly dodged a clever thrust by one of the remaining attackers. Not Tirivail - it was the young warrior, Rastenn.

  As part of his training, Sinoval had been blindfolded and forced to fight against foes he could not see. Minbari had notoriously poor dark vision, but warriors were trained to compensate. They should not fear the dark after all, for they had sworn to follow Valen into it.

  Stormbringer parried Rastenn's attack and Sinoval darted in on the offensive. A savage blow against the middle of Rastenn's pike was followed by another, and another. The third tore it from Rastenn's hands, and the follow–up sent him down.

  There was an explosion in the small of Sinoval's back and he fell. Tirivail's foot descended on his hand, and he lost his grasp on his blade. Stormbringer was kicked clear.

  There was a column of light, and Tirivail became visible above him. The bodies of Rastenn and the other two could be seen also. None of them was dead.

  Tirivail rested her pike on Sinoval's throat. His eyes met hers.

  * * *

  President William Morgan Clark is dead, his body torn apart by the explosive emergence of the alien that has lived within him for over two years. For two years he has been guided, helped and protected by the Vorlons, fulfilling their work under the noses of his Government.

  His last work is done. Now he can rest, although his dying wish was to be able to observe the aftermath of his actions. Not enough is left of his head to be sure, but there had been a smile on his face as he died.

  They all thought him a nonentity, a nothing. Now they would know otherwise. All their plans had been sent tumbling down around their ears.

  There were a number of bodies in the room with him. There was also a large hole where one body should be. Of Ambassador David Sheridan, there was no sign.

  But from one of the bodies there was a hint of movement. Welles' fingers twitched briefly, and his eyes opened.

  Far above his head the satellites of the Proxima 3 defence grid began to turn slowly and inexorably towards the planet they had been created to defend, and towards all the helpless people cowering there.

  Somewhere, in whatever realm his soul has ascended to, President William Morgan Clark is laughing.

  * * *

  The Agamemnon, the Dark Star 3, under Captain David Corwin, moved forward, pursuing the withdrawing Shadow ships.

  He moved nearer and nearer to Proxima 3.

  The unwitting lives of millions of humans moved with him.

  Chapter 6

  Humanity is doomed. The sins of the past have caught up with the present as once again alien ships appear in the skies above the world of humanity. There are still many who remember the fate of Earth, still many who fear.

  That fear is justified, but misplaced.

  The alien ships in the skies above Proxima are humanity's saviours, or they would be. And those who have doomed humanity are those they had trusted, even loved. A coalition of human and alien has moved, acting silently, behind shadows, for years.

  And now their plans are realised. In a secure bunker beneath the ruined remains of the Edgars Building, two men wait, safe in the knowledge that they will survive the firestorm soon to engulf Proxima 3. There is another man there, a man whose mind has been filled with a great, unholy light. All he can do is scream.

  There is another secret room where lies the torn body of the man who initiated this holocaust. President William Clark died with a smile on his face.

  But where are humanity's saviours, the cry arises. They are here, hidden perhaps, in unlikely places, but they are here.

  There is a man standing silently on the bridge of his dead ship, paralysed by an unknown force, a scream that has torn many of the Saint–Germain's systems to shreds. For years he has been reviled as a coward, even as a traitor.

  "Captain!" cried a voice. "We've got word. Engines are back on line."

  "What about the others?"

  "We still can't get through to the Dark Thunder. Damage to the De'Molay seems almost total, but they're working hard on the Morningstar."

  "It's just us, then."

  "Yes.... looks that way."

  "What about weapons?"

  "That's a no. Well, not yet anyway."

  "Where are the attacking ships?"

  "Some are still here, but most have moved on to Proxima. Our allies are pulling back."

  "Get us to the planet, as fast as possible."

  "But, Captain...." The Saint–Germain has no weapons, the hull integrity is almost nothing, the enhanced engines are out of commission. It was designed for scouting and reconnaissance, not as a battleship.

  "I know, but Proxima Three has nothing between the Alliance fleet and all those people but the defence grid. And us. We're going."

  Such is the nature of heroism. The man who has been called a coward for over a decade, Captain Francis Xavier DeClercq, brings his ship to the defence of his world.

  Another ship is already there. Captain David Corwin looks at the defence grid beginning to activate, beginning to turn inwards, and his eyes widen.

  And in a room with the dead body of the former President, Mr. Welles opens his eyes, and realisation comes to him instantly.

  * * *

  There are things moving inside him that definitely should not be moving. He is not a doctor, but he was married to one for seven years, and he has always had a good memory. With enough time to sit and think he could probably diagnose what is broken. The force that threw him against the wall was awesome.

  But he does not have time. Humanity does not have time.

  All the comm systems in the defence grid operating room are dead of course, destroyed by Clark. Whether that was before or after he killed all the crew there, Welles does not know. He can see their bodies in his mind's eye, and he can also see a great many more.

  He cannot walk. His left knee is twisted almost one hundred and eighty degrees, and the bone in his left shin is little more than shards. So he crawls, dragging himself along the smooth floor, leaving a long, sinuous trail of blood behind him, tacky and dark. His right arm is more or less all right, and his left is pressed in close against his chest, feeling his pulse desperately. It seems so fast. It feels so
loud.

  He tries to remember which way to take. There is a labyrinth of passages here, none of them known to the public. He thinks he knows the way, but there is so much he cannot recall now. When he tries, all he can see is Clark's body exploding, and the light throwing him against the wall.

  Finally he falls outwards and finds himself in a room. He does not know where. There are people there, starting at the sight of him. They recognise him of course. He supposes he is underground somewhere, buried in the deep, dark heart of the Government building.

  And he can see a commpanel.

  He keeps his eyes open, and spits out a gobbet of blood.

  There is no time.

  * * *

  "I think we have some unfinished business."

  The words came to former Earthforce Captain Dexter Smith from the middle of a haze of darkness and stars. He remembered hearing a voice talking to him, a softly accented alien voice, a woman who was telling him to kill her, as well as saying she forgave him.

  Then there came pain, and an awakening. And then more pain, and another voice. One that spoke not just in his dreams, but in reality.

  "Look at you now," said Trace's voice. "The big hero. Lying in the dirt and the mud. You came from here, didn't you? Sure you did, just like I did. We've both moved on since we emerged from the dirt, but here we are.... back here."

  There was a sharp kick to his side, and the sound of something cracking.

  "But that's where the difference is. I'll be leaving here, moving up and out. I won't be in Sector Three–o–one forever, you know. I think my backers up–sector just had a little.... crisis of conscience, but ah, what the hell! Nothing lasts forever. I used my money wisely. I've got friends up there, more friends than you know. I know where too many bodies are buried, you see. I'm moving up in the world."

  "Alli.... ance." The words would not come easily. Even thinking them gave Smith a headache. He needed time to think, time to catch his wind. He knew full well that Trace intended to kill him, and this time Talia was not going to materialise to help.