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

by Gareth D. Williams

  "I'm fully aware of how much you know, Mr. Edgars."

  "I doubt that, Mr. Smith. Anyway, the point.... As you know, the new Senate is forming.... slowly. Colonial Governors, civil servants and so forth. Largely uninspiring. It could use a.... renowned public figure.... such as yourself."

  "You aren't the first person to tell me I should run for the Senate. I'm busy where I am."

  "Ah.... but there is only so much you can do where you are now. You don't even have any official title. In the Senate, you would have influence.... power.... and who knows? Within a few years you could even be President."

  Smith couldn't resist a laugh. "President Smith? How about Mr. Smith goes to Proxima? I'm sorry.... I don't want to be President."

  "Making you the perfect choice. But that is for the future. The Senate.... Proxima, humanity even.... need people like you. You can do so much more to help your Sector Three–o–one there than you can now."

  "And what do you get out of this?"

  "Ah, yes.... Mr. Smith.... I have dedicated my life to the human race, to the protection and preservation of those of us not.... gifted with telepathic powers. It is often.... useful to have highly placed allies who agree with me. We both want what is best for Proxima and for humanity, and I would rather have a man who believes in the same things as I do in the Senate than a petty time–server only interested in feathering his own nest."

  "I'm a telepath, remember. What makes you think I'd vote the way you want?"

  "You cannot read minds, Mr. Smith. A slender distinction.... but a vital one. In any event, I will not demand you try to enforce an immediate cull. But I know you.... share some of my concerns, and leaving aside the telepath issue, I know you want what is best for humanity. I know I can rely on you to take action in the Senate, to do what you think is right."

  Smith sat back. "I won't say I haven't been thinking about this, but.... I don't want power."

  "As I said.... that makes you the perfect person to have it. There is no need for a decision immediately. Think about what I have said. If you decide you do want to put yourself in contention, let me know. I will do the rest.

  "Oh, and Senator Smith might have more luck arranging an appointment with General Sheridan than plain private citizen Smith."

  Smith stood up. "I won't ask how you knew about that."

  "That, Mr. Smith, would be very wise."

  * * *

  "Are you there? Can you hear me, Carolyn?"

  There was no reply. That did not surprise him. Carolyn never spoke to him when he was awake - only in his dreams, and then he rarely remembered their conversations. But he always awoke with the lingering echo of her voice and her screams in his mind.

  Even now, after all this time adjusting to the idea, David Corwin could not believe what the Vorlons had done. Imprisoning telepaths within ships like this, leaving them conscious but paralysed, their minds linked in an endless network of pain. Monstrous was not the word to describe it.

  But what could he do? The Vorlons were, for now at least, allies against the Shadows. Humanity certainly didn't have the technology to undo what the Vorlons had done in crafting the 'nodes' on the network that were the Dark Star ships.

  He had gone wandering in the deeper reaches of the ship, looking for the chamber in which Carolyn would be imprisoned, despite Lyta's warning against such a move. He had had no success, just a screaming headache that had left him bedridden for days.

  And so he had thrown himself into his duties. Much against his will, he had been appointed administrator of the shipyards here at Greater Krindar, co–ordinating the Alliance ships that beached here, arranging raiding parties into Shadow controlled territories. It was a level of responsibility he had not wanted and never expected. It was a strange feeling to be talking with generals such as Kulomani and Daro. To his discomfort they spoke with him as an equal, the inevitable result of shared experiences at the Battle of Proxima.

  He had never wanted this. Never. At the back of his mind a million thoughts swirled, each one kept in careful check. He thought of his friend, General Sheridan, the man who had become a near stranger over the past year. He thought of Carolyn, trapped and paralysed somewhere in the heart of the ship in which he spent twenty–four hours a day.

  He was also thinking about Lyta, thinking about her far too much.

  He had never asked for this.

  Still, the war was going well. The Dark Star patrols were beating back occasional Shadow raiding parties, liberating systems, destroying bases and outposts. The Shadows were pulling back, rarely risking an outright engagement. Corwin was beginning to realise that in a war of attrition, the Shadows would lose, and that they knew this.

  That was not a welcoming thought. They were readying themselves, they were planning something. Besides, the Alliance might be able to win a war of attrition, but how many would they lose in doing so?

  Still, time passed. Matters proceeded more or less according to plan. The war was slowly but surely being won.

  The Shadows were content to wait.

  * * *

  Now. Awake.

  The nameless man stirred. What is required of me?

  He was told. Do not fail us.

  I will not fail.

  Know what is to happen. Know what your sacrifice will bring.

  Images filled his mind. There was a glory, a great and powerful glory. Yes!

  I am ready. I will not fail.

  * * *

  Like all the races known as the First Ones, the Shadows knew the value of patience. With countless millennia of existence behind them, with a dedicated purpose of social and galactic engineering, they had learned long ago to wait.

  But they had also learned when to wait, and when to act.

  There were some on Z'ha'dum who were coming to recognise that the war was over, that their race was finished. Factions were forming, at least, factions as the mortal mind would understand their society. Some advocated a token defeat and a slip into obscurity, waiting for the time to re–emerge. Others claimed that would not work, not again. What would they lose this time? Another thousand years? More?

  Then there were those who held that it was all over, not just this war, but for all wars. They should leave this galaxy and join their brothers beyond the Rim, abandoning their ungrateful children to the Vorlons.

  But first there would be an opportunity for revenge, to even the score.... and perhaps one last chance at victory. It would be a risk, but win or lose, there would be chaos, and that would be a victory of a sort.

  * * *

  There was a dull tapping in his mind, a noise it took him a while to realise was the sound of his blood hitting the floor.

  It was strange. He had expected pain. It certainly should hurt, from the size of the knife wound in his stomach, but.... somehow, it didn't. There was no feeling at all, nothing except a final peace.

  It was over. At last, it was over.

  General Edward Ryan blinked as he tried to look up at his murderer. The man was writing something on the wall, writing in Ryan's own blood. The lines formed letters, which formed words, but Ryan could not make sense of them. They all.... blurred into one another.

  Words came to him, rising over the sound of his blood dripping to the floor.

  Some of us are planning an escape, General. We believe there is a place we can hide, build up slowly again. There are rumours Captain Smith and the Marten survived Beta Durani and are hiding out somewhere. If we can find them....

  Why are you telling me this?

  Ryan blinked as a red gauze filtered across his vision. Where were those words coming from? They seemed to make sense.

  Come with us, General. They'll flock to you. It'll take time, yes.... but we're used to that, aren't we?

  No, Captain. No.

  Why not? How is this different from fighting the Minbari, General? We need you.

  The war is over now.

  No. The war will never be over. Sheridan has betrayed us.... handed us over to
aliens. He led a war against his own people, General. Surely you can see that!

  That is treason you speak, soldier.

  It's the truth I speak!

  Yes. Now he remembered. An argument with Captain Barns.... when? A few weeks ago, perhaps less. The echoes of the anger and the sorrow seemed etched into the walls.

  Words on the wall. They were starting to become clear now. He could almost see them. The man was just finishing.

  Listen to me, Captain. The war is over. We have a chance to build a new Proxima here.... finally to be rid of everything that's hit us for all these years. Please try to understand that.

  General Hague would have understood.

  General Hague is dead! And if you try to leave this planet, Captain, you will be arrested and court–martialled. Surely you see that!

  I see nothing, General. Not a single thing.

  Ryan blinked, wondering why he wasn't dead yet. Almost three years ago, General Hague had blown his brains out with a PPG, unable to accept the cost of the war. Ryan would have done the same, had he but the courage.

  But he had never had the courage. Not to end his life, not to continue fighting, not to do anything but meekly accept what had been thrown at him. He should have agreed with Barns, he should have gone with him. It was the right thing to do, but....

  But he had been too afraid. All his adult life he had seen his people engaged in one terrible war after another. Surely this new life, this new peace, whatever it cost, was better than another sixteen years of war.

  The man turned from the wall, his work done. Ryan blinked and looked up at it. It was a message, as he had expected.

  Proxima Will Be Free.

  General Edward Ryan sighed, closed his eyes, and died.

  * * *

  Some stories have not been told yet.

  The day Ryan died, Captain David Corwin was on a routine patrol around the Greater Krindar shipyards, supervising the repairs and defences of the Dark Star fleet. There had been a particularly bloody battle at Lukantha. The Shadows had eventually been driven back, but at great cost. Five Dark Stars had been destroyed, and another seven damaged. They were in for repairs.

  Five telepaths, sealed forever in space, in an eternity of agony nothing could end, linked forever to their accursed network.

  And another seven alive, but in pain. Carolyn magnified their pain through to him. Phantom pain. He had awoken in the middle of the night, reaching frantically for his left arm, convinced it had been blown away.

  How many more? How many more lives were the Vorlons going to throw away in this vendetta of theirs? How many more lives was he going to let them throw away before he did something, anything?

  Wait, Lyta had said. Wait. Be patient. The time will come.

  When?

  Something hummed in the back of his mind and he sat upright in his chair, realising it was Carolyn. That had been happening a lot the longer he spent on this ship. Some of the other captains were reporting similar symptoms, an almost symbiotic link with the ship, as if it were becoming a part of them.

  They did not know about the telepaths, of course. Corwin shuddered to think of the implications.

  Still, he knew better than to ignore such a warning.

  "Scan for anything unusual," he said, cautiously. "Anything...." He wasn't sure, but Carolyn could sense something.

  Wait.... telepathic powers were heightened in hyperspace, weren't they? Wasn't that the whole point of this network, how it operated? And the Shadows could move through hyperspace effortlessly. They even lived there to some extent.

  "Scan into hyperspace," he said. The Dark Stars could do that. The Vorlons were every bit as adept at travelling through hyperspace as the Shadows.

  "Captain," barked out the technician. "Jump gates."

  "Gates?" The Shadows didn't use jump gates. They just slipped between dimensions as easily as walking from one room to another. "Who?"

  Ships appeared, and immediately began to fire.

  "That's insane," whispered Corwin, knowing he should give orders, but unable to assimilate the absurdity of this. This did not make sense. Even considering everything that had happened recently, this did not make any sense.

  "Why would the Minbari attack us?"

  * * *

  John Clemens was a man who did not make friends easily. He was, however, very skilled at what he did, and what he did was catch people. He was an investigator, a detective, a cold, harsh man who lived only to regulate and control society.

  For years he had been languishing in a thankless, forsaken post. A prison Governor in the far northern Dome, a maximum security area where aliens were kept, as well as the worst human criminals. His skills should have placed him far higher, but he did not rage at his lack of recognition, content to wait. In some strange way he suspected the truth.

  He had met Mr. Welles on only a few occasions, but Welles had been his superior for years. Somewhere, in the icy caverns of his mind, Clemens recognised that Welles respected him and wanted him somewhere safe. He wanted a skilled man to take over should anything.... happen. A man untouched and untainted by political rivalries.

  A man who would do his job and no more.

  "Well, Mr. Clemens?" said the man beside him. "What precautions have you taken?"

  "We've sealed all the spaceports, of course," Clemens said in his typically clipped manner. He had very little patience, but was singularly adept at hiding this from others. "This is being treated as a Code Perfect crime - one of maximum importance."

  "A holdover from the Wartime Emergency Provisions."

  "One that has never been repealed. General Ryan held a position expressly mentioned in the relevant sections and any crime against him should be treated as a Code Perfect."

  "That's a value judgement. Do you really think you have that authority?"

  "I am Chief of Security for the whole of this planet. That gives me the authority to invoke Code Perfect. In this case, I am doing so. I do not need your authorisation."

  The man nodded. "Continue."

  "The Domes are being closed off, the transport tunnels shut down. A curfew is being imposed. My officers have licence to enter and search any building they see fit. Due to a shortage of available officers, however, I am exercising discretion in the use of that power. Based on the approximate time of the murder, the perpetrator would probably not have got further than ten or twelve sectors in any direction, so we are working on identifying potential hiding places. The recent devastation has of course increased their number considerably. I have also ordered a planet–wide cordon of ships in case a shuttle does manage to escape."

  "You are taking up a great deal of resources on this. Not to mention time. Those ships are necessary for the continuation of the war, and the Security officers will be needed for other duties."

  "Everything I have done is within the remit of my position. If of course you want the murderer to escape, then you are free to remove me and appoint a replacement. Until you do that, you have no power to object as long as I stay within the provisions of my office and within the powers granted me by the Wartime Emergency Provisions."

  "Those Provisions are being repealed. Every last one of them."

  "That is for the Senate to consider. When it is fully convened, of course. Now, unless there are any more questions...."

  "Yes, actually. There are. Have you any thoughts on how the murderer managed to get inside General Ryan's rooms, and out again, without your officers noticing?"

  "A pass card was used, permitting authorised access to certain areas, including the General's rooms. It is possible that the murderer was a civil servant or ministerial aide, who had appropriate authorisation. It is also possible he or she stole the card or bought it on the black market. My officers are severely under strength, as you well know."

  "Yes, I do, and that's something I'm working on rectifying, but the last sixteen years have hit us all quite hard. How long do you think it will take you to find the murderer?"

 
"As long as it takes."

  "I see.... Act quickly. There is a war on."

  "No. For us, the war is very much over." The other man turned to leave, and Clemens continued reviewing the murder scene, taking in details, information, evidence, when a thought occurred to him. "Oh, by the way, General Sheridan....

  "I just thought you would like to know. Considering the position you now hold and the wording of the Provisions, your murder would also qualify for a Code Perfect investigation. Is that not a welcoming thought?"

  "No," Sheridan said dryly. "Not really."

  * * *

  Some things were oddly familiar, even welcoming in a strange way.

  Corwin had been fighting the Minbari almost all of his adult life. He had worked together with his Captain, the legendary Starkiller, devising tactics and battle plans specifically geared to Minbari ways of fighting. The vast majority of that war had been fought from a position of extreme weakness, where every tiny advantage was essential, no strategy too underhand, no possibility left unchecked.

  Now Corwin was not in a damaged, half–obsolete, vastly inferior human ship. He was in one of the most advanced and powerful ships of its class anywhere in the galaxy. He was not alone, but surrounded by allies. He could target the Minbari ships easily, his Dark Star was faster and more manoeuvrable, and his forces outnumbered the enemy.

  Admittedly, the telepath network was of little to no use in actual combat against non–Shadow–based ships, but that was another plus as far as he was concerned.

  But the big question, the one he still could not answer.

  Why?

  "Defensive positions," he ordered hurriedly. "Defend the shipyards." The Minbari had an advantage of time, a small one, but potentially enough. Corwin saw the Dark Stars adopting a hasty defensive position. Some damage had already been done. "Put out a signal to the Minbari. Make damned sure they can hear it."

  Still the Minbari came forward, all weapons blasting. Corwin shook his head, unwilling to accept any of this. It looked like a deliberate suicide mission, a kamikaze attack. But why, in God's name?