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

by Gareth D. Williams

  "This is Captain David Corwin of the Dark Star fleet to attacking Minbari vessels," he said. "Cease firing and surrender now, or you will be destroyed. Diplomatic negotiations can be initiated at Kazomi Seven. This is a base of the United Alliance, and there is no war between the Alliance and the Minbari. What is the meaning of this attack? Please respond."

  "Captain. Captain Daro wishes to begin offensive measures."

  "Negative," Corwin replied. "We defend the shipyards. Strike to disable where possible."

  "He says...."

  "I don't care what he says! They act as if I'm in charge here, so they can damned well listen to me. Defensive positions only."

  "We're getting a reply from the Minbari. It's.... just one word. Chugo. No translation."

  "We don't need one," Corwin muttered. "It means 'Duty'. Damn them!"

  Still the Minbari came forward, throwing themselves at the Dark Stars, heedless of the danger, uncaring of the risk of death. They came.

  It was not a fight. It was a massacre. Finally two Minbari warships limped away, damaged, near–destroyed. Corwin let them go. They had taken no prisoners. The Minbari had not allowed themselves to be taken prisoner.

  "Captain Daro is requesting leave to pursue."

  "Negative," Corwin sighed wearily. "We can't have an engagement in hyperspace, and we'll need to stay here. For all we know this could be a distraction, to draw us away from the shipyards and hit them with something bigger. Why on Earth would...? No, it doesn't matter. We'll need an assessment of the damage, both to the facilities and the ships. We'll also have to send a message to the nearest base. I think we'll need reinforcements. I'll prepare a report for Proxima and Kazomi Seven."

  He did not need to ask about casualties. One of the Dark Stars had been destroyed, a flaming Minbari warship having ploughed straight into it. He had heard Carolyn redirect the scream to his own mind.

  As he sat back in his chair to listen to the reports, a nagging thought preyed on his mind. Why the Minbari? What did they have to gain by this? What purpose was there to this attack?

  And one word seemed to echo off the walls of his memory, through a telepath's silent scream. A word he had spoken, but forgotten.

  One word.

  Distraction.

  * * *

  In a place that is no place, William Edgars receives a report. He speaks to a person with no name, one who sits on the Council, but who also recognises a greater master, one who serves not only humanity, but also the Lords of Order.

  "And are we to take action over this?"

  "It is believed General Ryan was killed by a political extremist protesting against the new regime, possibly one of Clark's followers. Many are still unaccounted for."

  "Not possible. All of Clark's immediate aides, advisors and servants are dead, imprisoned or neutralised. This information may not be available to the new regime, but it is to us. This seems to be something more."

  "The Shadows?"

  "Yes. Ryan's murder triggered a Code Perfect. Proxima is now sealed off. Should General Sheridan try to repeal the order, there will be further difficulties between him and the Senate. That could be their aim."

  "By now, the Shadows are aware that there is a node of the network here on Proxima. They know we can find any of their agents on the planet, and the imposition of Code Perfect renders escape impossible."

  "Then their aim is what? Buying time?"

  "How long will it take to locate their agent?"

  "A full search will not be easy, and it will draw considerable resources away from other nodes. It is possible they know this. It seems they do intend to buy time, but for what? Possible theories?"

  "To weaken the Dark Star ships?"

  "Unlikely. The Dark Stars are nodes all of their own. Each fleet operates on a mini–network, a part of the larger network, but almost self–contained."

  "There is insufficient evidence."

  "Very well. We will find this agent. We will act as swiftly as we can. It is possible the Shadows do not know the full powers and limitations of the network. It is possible the imposition of Code Perfect was their only aim, in which case we must see that it is lifted soon."

  "As you say. The Table advocates no action in this. They wish to maintain a low profile after recent events."

  "Cowards, but then caution is rarely a serious sin. They can wait, as we can."

  Four hours and twenty–eight minutes later, William Edgars stood before Byron as he completed his mission. There was indeed a Shadow agent on the planet, in hiding. Edgars paused for a moment's thought, and then sent a message to Dexter Smith.

  * * *

  There was no particular reason why the nameless man had come to Sector 301, none at all. He had performed the duty he had been given, and now he was free to rest. All he had to do now was avoid capture for as long as possible, to buy as much time as he could.

  All had gone as the Dark Masters had promised. Proxima was sealed off, General Sheridan was stuck here, his ships all but paralysed in space. Resources were controlled, restricted. Time.... time was passing. Each second he remained free was another second his enemies did not have to respond.

  He knew all he needed of the Dark Masters' counterstrike, their plan for revenge, even possibly for victory. They still wished to win, yes, but if they could not, then revenge would be acceptable - the burning of worlds, the searing of stars. The galaxy would be left barren and dead, a message to the races who had scorned their message.

  He was not the only one, he knew that. There were others, amongst the Minbari, on Centauri Prime, Narn.... everywhere. He was not working alone.

  Another minute passed. And another. Every minute mattered.

  A brief flicker of light illuminated his hiding place. So. They had found him at last. It didn't matter. He had done enough, and there was still the possibility of escape.

  He tried to run, each step providing another second. He tried to fight back, and bought precious moments for his Dark Masters. Finally he tried to kill himself, but alas, he failed. He was not unduly troubled. Questioning him would take time.

  Time.... with time came change. Change led to chaos, and chaos led to strength.

  Time was his greatest weapon, and as they took him away, he found himself marking off the seconds and smiling happily.

  * * *

  "I think we owe you our thanks, Mr. Smith."

  "You don't owe me anything, Captain. Or is it General now?"

  "General, strictly speaking, but that doesn't matter."

  "General, then. Oh, and by the way, if we're being formal, it's Senator–elect Smith."

  "Oh? Really? I don't remember hearing...."

  "Well, there you are. You learn something new every day."

  "I'm sensing a little animosity here."

  "And why would that be? Listen, General Sheridan. I spent years living in your shadow, walking in your footprints. I captained your ship, sat in your chair, gave orders to your crew. I would have given anything to be anywhere near as good as you were.

  "Not any more. Now, I know what I'm doing. You're the one who doesn't."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Have a good, long look at what you're doing to Proxima. Ask yourself why Delenn isn't here. And most of all, open your eyes, open your ears and look around you, listen to people. Maybe then, you'll find out.

  "I've got an office here, a place I can work from. That's where you can find me.... if you need to.

  "But for now, I'm very busy. Good day, General."

  * * *

  Obtaining the prisoner had not been difficult, not for the old man anyway. He had ways and means of achieving most things on Proxima, and arranging a little diversion for a Code Perfect designated prisoner on his way to the maximum security dome at Rykers had been a piece of cake.

  Officially, the murderer of General Ryan was there now. Unofficially, he was sedated and semi–conscious in a secret room that few people knew existed, set in a chair before a man who had long ago
ceased to remember his own name.

  The old man looked around, wishing Mr. Morden were here. He always liked having company while he was down here. There was something unnerving about the way Byron seemed to be looking at him, not with his thoughts, but with his mind. He knew of course that Byron had no control over any part of himself, mind or body - that was not allowed by the network - but that did not ease his discomfort.

  Oh, well. Morden had gone some months ago, heading for Centauri Prime. Matters there were reaching fever pitch, and a reliable agent was needed. The old man had received a few reports, and none of them had made pleasant reading. The last one had been some weeks ago, indicating that the Enemy were finally ready to make their move. Nothing since, although word of rioting, widespread insanity and open fighting in the capital had filtered through. None of these reports had come from Morden though, so he paid the rumours no special attention.

  "Mr. Byron," he said softly, and the telepath stirred, his eyes flickering open. "Mr. Byron, there is something you need to do for us." The words were unnecessary of course. Byron responded only to the network and to the slightest of thoughts reaching into his soporific mind.

  A brilliant golden light blazed within his eyes and a soft rush of air flowed from around him. Behind him the jump gate opened with a blaze of noise and gravity and light. Byron's body snapped taut as he again became one with the combined minds of a billion telepaths on a billion worlds, all working as one to maintain the jump point, and in doing so amplify each other's powers.

  "We need his thoughts. We need his memories."

  Byron turned his head slightly to look at the Shadow agent. A circle of light fell across the man's face, and he screamed.

  "Why?" the old man asked. "Why did he do it? What are they planning?"

  "A distraction. A misdirection. The purchase of time." The voice was like no human voice ever heard. It was a multitude of tones in one, a combination of human and alien and machine, music and scream all joined.

  "They have shown him. A Fist of Darkness, a dark cloud has been awakened.

  "It will turn to a planet and destroy it utterly, tearing it apart from inside, reducing an entire world to a dead husk."

  "Which world? Where is it going?" They all knew the Shadows had planet–killing technology, of course. If the Minbari did, then the elder races must have, but it had been hoped they were all lost.

  Evidently not.

  "Which world?" he asked again. "Where is it going?"

  * * *

  David Corwin paced up and down his room. Something was nagging at him, a sound that seemed to come from just beyond his hearing, like a quiet conversation in the next room. He could pick up the sounds, but not the words.

  A distraction, yes, but a distraction from what? What were they doing? Had it been a ploy to lure the fleet away from the shipyards, to sneak in while they were gone and destroy the base? Had it been a simple suicide attack?

  What?

  A Fist of Darkness.

  He started and looked around. He had heard that. He knew he had. But who...? "Carolyn," he whispered. "Carolyn, is that you?"

  Which world? Where is it going?

  A different voice, a man's. But what the...?

  He heard the answer, and his eyes widened. He swore. Now he knew.

  He was running before he realised it, barking orders through his link. "Recall all crew, all fighters. Get me Captains Daro and Kulomani. Get together every ship we can. And hurry!"

  Oh, God. Oh, merciful God. They could not let this happen. Please, let there be time.

  Please....

  * * *

  "Which world? Where is it going?"

  "Kazomi....

  "Kazomi Seven."

  Chapter 2

  "Win or lose, I no longer care. The warriors of the future will hail my name, they will follow my legacy, they will remember my deeds.... and they will know me. Maybe they will accept me as a great man, maybe they never will.

  "I know this, though. I have lost the war, yes.... but in my own way, I have won. And that is enough. Do you understand me?"

  "Yes. I understand you all too well."

  * * *

  It was the curse of the warrior always to be alone. Friends, lovers, companions - all were fleeting, transitory, ultimately irrelevant. A warrior loved only one thing: battle. Why make friends when they would only die? Why fall in love when the burdens of this world would only separate you?

  Duty was all that remained. Let the priestlings have their riches and the workers their little pleasures. The warriors had their duty. The rest of the Federation lived and slept and loved all because of them. That was satisfaction enough. The rush of battle, the burden of duty, the weight of the blade.... such was a warrior's life.

  Victory and defeat were merely words. How could mere words, how could poets or writers or historians hope to describe the true heart of a warrior, the ultimate triumph of victory and the agonising despair of defeat?

  Sonovar had never fancied himself a poet or a writer, and his conceit caused him to label himself a maker of history, not a recorder of it. But he knew.... oh, he knew victory and defeat all too well. He had gloried after Tarolin 2.... and now he despaired.

  Weeks passed, moving into months. While the rest of the galaxy dissolved into war, while Proxima 3 adjusted to the new era, while the Narn and Centauri continued to fight, Sonovar did nothing. He moved as a ghost through the corridors of his ship, his eyes haunted, his mind plagued with dark thoughts. He slept poorly, and spoke often to himself.

  His war was lost, he knew that now. He had been defeated the instant Sinoval had stolen away his Tak'cha. Once, he had been in a position to dominate the pitiful remains of the Minbari Federation. Now, he was nothing more than a rebel commander in charge of a handful of ships. Those who had followed him were leaving, defectors recognising the futility of their position. Rastenn had left but days ago.

  Oh, Takier was still here, and so was Tirivail. Not that she was her old self either. Whatever had happened at Babylon 4 had changed her. It was probably connected to Kozorr's defection. Now that had hurt Sonovar. He had genuinely believed Kozorr would follow him into the grave. Still, why should a man who had broken one oath think twice about breaking a second?

  Takier was himself, the same as he had always been. He was a true warrior, the wisdom of experience in his mind, but even he was beginning to bend beneath the burdens he faced. He had had three children - one was dead, another a traitor and the third turned into a living ghost.

  It was Takier who had organised the retreat and the fortification of what was left of Sonovar's fleet. He had done so with his customary skill and judgement. Should Sinoval choose to attack, then Takier's defences would hold long enough for a truly glorious death, an epic battle rather than a meaningless slaughter.

  Of course, the point was moot. Sinoval was too skilled a tactician to attack. He had no need to. He could sit back and wait. The inrush of those surrendering to him was proof he had won. His offer to 'talk' had proved that. He knew he had won. All he wanted to do now was gloat in his triumph.

  "Talk," Sonovar whispered to himself on one of his long and lonely walks. "Talk. He is willing to talk." Willing only to gloat, to glory in his victory. "Talk." As if they were priestlings, diplomats.... negotiators! They were warriors. The only words that needed to be spoken came from the blade.

  "Talk."

  He returned, as always, to his private sanctum, his place of meditation and training. His pike lay on the floor there. He had not lifted it in weeks. A goblet had been placed by its side, full and ready with the sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet elixir Forell prepared. It was meant to be invigorating and refreshing, but recently it had tasted only of ashes.

  "Talk?" he said again. "Ah, Sinoval...." Sonovar looked into the shadows of his room, and saw the form of his nemesis there. "Ah, Sinoval.... what is there to talk about?" He drained the elixir. "What is talk for such as we?"

  Then he fell silent. He could
not think of anything to say.

  * * *

  Sinoval knew the value of silence. Sometimes, he knew, the most effective words are the ones that go unspoken. He had developed the skill of silence for the purpose of intimidation, but more recently he had put it to other uses. He had turned the skill of not speaking into the art of listening.

  He had known in advance of Rastenn's story. It was very similar to those of all the others who had come to him, seeking forgiveness, seeking penance. He would do with Rastenn as he had done with the others - send him to defend Tarolin 2 and the other worlds he controlled. It was time they all learned the value of lifting a weapon to protect, rather than to destroy.

  The story was indeed as he had been expecting. He was told of Sonovar's military capabilities, his plans and deployments. He learned of Sonovar's malaise and Tirivail's distractions. He discovered that Takier was practically leading the force now, and that Forell appeared in the darkest of shadows, whispering words of dark portent.

  He learned a good many things, some of which were important, some of which weren't.... but when Rastenn finished there was one thing he had not been told, the one thing he most needed to know.

  "Tell me," he said, the first words he had uttered since Rastenn had come to him. "Why?"

  "Holy One?" Rastenn asked, puzzled. That was another unifying factor. All of Sonovar's warriors, captured or defected, referred to Sinoval as 'Holy One', the title he had held as leader of the Grey Council before he had broken it. None of them would ever call him 'Primarch'.

  "Why have you left Sonovar and come to me? Am I not your enemy?"

  "I...." Rastenn looked down. Sinoval had heard many answers to that question. Some had said that they had realised Sonovar was wrong. Some claimed to have been merely pretending to follow him in order to gather information. Others had replied that they knew it was over and had come to make peace and serve their people.

  "I just knew it was right," Rastenn said finally. "I heard what you said to Tirivail on Anla'Verenn–veni. It just took too long for the words to touch me."