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

by Gareth D. Williams

  "Where will you go?" Kats asked softly.

  "Away," he said. "To walk on the edges of perception, at the border between light and darkness."

  "My Primarch," said Lanniel. "Take us with you. We are your Blades and we swore to serve you. Please, lord.... take us with you."

  "Where I go you cannot follow, Lanniel. I was never displeased with you or with any of the others. Serve the new order as well as you did me, and that shall be enough."

  "But, Primarch...."

  "That is my wish, Lanniel. Will you deny me that much?"

  She stiffened. "No, Primarch. It shall be as you say."

  Sinoval bowed to them all. "Then I am done here. I have faith in you all, and in our people. I will not be here, but I will watch. I know you will all do well."

  He turned and left, moving quickly. There. It was done. There had truly been no other way to unite the Minbari. What he had told Takier had been true. They would never be as one while he remained there. There were too many old memories, old divisions. Without them.... there could be unity.

  He became aware that someone was coming after him, moving as quickly as he was. He turned and saw Kats standing there. "I cannot be dissuaded, my lady," he said. "Others will need you to be their conscience now."

  "That is not it," she said. "I understand. I disagree, but I understand. I just wanted two things."

  "What?"

  She reached in and kissed him gently, once, then stood back. "To say goodbye," she said. "And to ask just one favour, one last memory."

  "Of course, my lady. Anything. What do you wish of me?"

  She told him.

  * * *

  Lunacy. Absolute lunacy.

  Oh, he had tried to protest, tried to insist that there was someone more suitable, but she would have none of it. No one could dissuade Kats when she set her mind to a task.

  "But I am no priest.... Surely one of the religious caste...."

  "We wish it to be you."

  "Have.... have all the rituals been performed?"

  "Some, but not others. Some we could not perform, others were not appropriate. The old ways are gone now, Sinoval. They can never come back, so why should we be shackled by old customs? We have been thinking about this...."

  "We?"

  "Well.... I have been. We want this to be you. No one else will.... It would not be the same."

  "But...."

  "I understand that you must go, and I understand that I may never see you again. We both do. But will you truly go without leaving us anything to remember you by?"

  "No.... No, I could never deny you anything, my lady. Nothing that was in my power to give you. Allow me some time to prepare."

  She had smiled, a smile that could have outshone stars.

  And so it was that Sinoval, Primarch Majestus et Conclavus, Master of Cathedral, found himself performing the ceremony that wed a warrior who had given up his weapons, and a worker who carried hers in her heart.

  It was far from being a traditional ceremony, but then that would have been impossible anyway. For one thing there was no holy ground, except for the vast chapel that was the Well of Souls. There were no witnesses apart from a million souls of the dead, their spirits joined in happiness and wonder.

  Never before, the Well told him, and he was sure he could hear the Primarch's voice foremost in the music that came with the words. Never before has there been such joy here, and from only two souls. We thank you for this experience, Primarch. It is not something we had imagined we would feel.

  "Never before has there been such joy," Sinoval mused, knowing that Kats and Kozorr could not hear his words. He knew full well the blood and torment that had forged this place. "And it is doubtful there will be again, not within their lifetimes certainly." He knew what neither of them knew. Kozorr was dying. One day, very soon, his life would just.... stop.

  "But they have the present, and they will always have their memories. Perhaps, in the end.... that will be enough."

  And he had something to take with him as well, something to take on his lonely and barren war, a war that would never end. He had their happiness, their smiles, their joy.

  And he had the sheer pride as he ended the ceremony. It had been a mix and match of various cultures, various words and deeds, but it ended as so many did, across worlds and races and nations.

  "You may kiss."

  And they did.

  Sinoval smiled. His war beckoned, but as he looked at the two of them, so very much in love, it was the first time he had had even the slightest idea of what he was fighting for.

  And for that he thanked them.

  Chapter 3

  "Well, at least that's over now. We can begin preparing for the future."

  "I do not believe we have much of a future. Not any more."

  "Oh, you do. It just isn't the sort of future you might have imagined you were going to have."

  * * *

  The End.

  I have no face.

  Not any more.

  This morning I did. This morning I had a face, I had a name, I had an identity. Now I have none of these things. I have a crown that gives me a headache, a throne that I do not like sitting in and an image in a mirror that I do not recognise as myself. I do not have a name. I have a title.

  It is Emperor.

  The room is quiet. I am the only one here, alone.... alone with my throne, my crown, my robes. Alone with the two bodies on the floor and the ghosts of my friends.

  There is a hole in the corner. It is marked with shadows, a place where my friend used to stand, saying nothing that did not need to be said, merely watching. He does not stand there any longer. He is gone, and he will not be returning.

  Who am I?

  I am the Emperor.

  I am nobody.

  I am Emperor because a madman did not want to be, because he would rather die than take the crown and the throne for himself. There was a time when I was determined to deny him his final laugh, to prove him wrong, to create a dynasty that would endure beyond myself, deep into the future. I would not let him win.

  I was blind. We were all blind, because he has won. Not in the way he might have foreseen, but he has won all the same. I will be the last Emperor of the Centauri Republic, and the people to come after will curse my name for my weakness and my failure.

  I have no name. All who knew it are gone.

  I sit down on my uncomfortable throne and hear the angry words still hanging in the air. I look at the body on the floor and remember that I used to have a name, even a face.

  Now I have nothing.

  Congratulations, Cartagia. You were right. All along, you were right.

  Who am I?

  No one.

  * * *

  The Beginning.

  The memory was still fresh. The image of that.... nightmare passing across the sky, blotting out the light. The echoes of its long scream still sounded in his mind.

  For one moment he almost forgot who was next to him.

  "Blessed G'Quan," the Narn pilot was whispering. "You were right...."

  For that one moment their struggle had been forgotten. Londo looked at his opponent again, seeing him with new eyes. The Narn was shaking, trembling with a revelation long hidden. He had seen religious fanatics in the streets of the capital, and the Narn had the same gleam in his eyes.

  A few moments ago they had been trying to kill each other. Then they had heard that scream, and the thing had passed overhead.

  Londo was half–afraid it would return to destroy them. Then he wondered if it could care. What were they to creatures such as it? Nothing more than insects, than microbes. He knew somehow that it was immeasurably old, an ancient and terrible malevolence. And he knew, he knew in the whispers and cries of the insane and in the dreams of dying men.... he knew that these creatures would come to his home.

  "Blessed G'Quan," the Narn said again.

  He lifted his head, and his red eyes looked directly into Londo's. There was one bri
ef moment of understanding. "What is our struggle to such as they?" the Narn asked. His words had a strange feel to them. The Narn sighed. "It was a quotation," he explained after a moment, "from one of our holiest books. Our prophet urged us all to set aside our own wars and look to the greater enemy."

  He pointed up into the sky. "That is the enemy he was speaking of."

  "Rubbish," Londo spat. "You mean to tell me that you of all people recognise that.... thing? When all the explorers and scientists and thinkers of our Republic have never so much as dreamed of the existence of something like that?"

  "I have seen them before. Drawings from the ancient texts. I never dreamed they were.... real. Never. They have returned, exactly as G'Quan foretold. Do you even know what that means, Centauri? It means that nothing matters any more. Our war, our struggle.... are all irrelevant. They will destroy everything. I know.... and so do you."

  Londo trembled. "You lie."

  "Do I?"

  "Pah! I grow tired of this. Kill me if you must, but do not insult my intelligence any longer."

  "Your words belie your fear. Yes, I could kill you, but what would that achieve? They will tear apart your world just as easily as mine. How long, Centauri? How long until they move in force? How long have they even been awake? Will they move for Centauri Prime tomorrow? In a year, a century? When?

  "They are here, and someone must do something. And if not us, then who?"

  "Another quotation?" The Narn nodded. "What can we do? What, against them? Even if I believed you, do you seriously think we could hurt that?"

  "It has been done. G'Quan drove them from our world once before, and he spoke of others, mortals like you and me, who fought them. Fought them and won. He called them.... Rangers. It seems the Rangers are needed again."

  "And who will lead them? You?"

  "Until another comes to do so, yes.... but that can wait. For now, there is only one question that needs to be asked. You have seen them. You know what they are, and what they can do. If we cannot live together, then we shall surely die apart. Are you going to help me fight them, or will you stay here, and start at the shadows?"

  "Two of us is not exactly a large army." Londo was shaking.

  "It will get bigger."

  "I must be crazy."

  "No," the Narn said softly. "Seeing that has made us both sane. It is the rest of the galaxy that is crazy."

  "Ah, to hell with it. Yes. I will join your army, Narn, such as it is."

  "As I said, it will get bigger. And my name.... is G'Kar."

  * * *

  Other Beginnings, to More Recent Stories.

  It was the whole of the galaxy that was consumed with fire and darkness in the second half of the year the humans called 2261. While Kazomi 7 faced threats from above and the Minbari people threats from within, the Centauri and the Narn faced threats from each other, from friends and allies.

  Where are they all, this spiralling circle of friends, lovers, acquaintances and enemies? Where did they all begin, before Kazomi 7 so much as imagined the dark cloud that would consume it, before Sinoval made his final move towards his destiny, when Delenn was debating whether to remain on Proxima with the one she still loved, when Sonovar still dreamed futile dreams that he could win?

  Where are they all?

  On Proxima 3, all is quiet. Well, perhaps quiet is a relative term, but the wars are over, General Ryan still lives, the world still abides under a new and difficult occupation, the network is humming in peaceful monotony.

  Mr. Morden is ready to leave at last. Proxima can survive without him, and he has been away too long. Matters on Centauri Prime are perilously close to explosion again. He is needed there, and this time he will not be forced out, not by anyone.

  Lord–General Marrago returns home from a routine patrol of the front lines. Expansion and liberation of former Centauri worlds now occupied by the Narns are little more than a pipe–dream at the moment. Too many resources will be needed just to hold the territories they currently control. The Alliance has not yet joined the side of the Narns, but it is inevitable. Trade sanctions are hitting the homeworld hard, and Marrago knows there are no allies he can turn to. Well.... there might be one, but the cost of that deal would be too much for him to pay.

  Carn Mollari remains behind at the line, waiting and watching, his mind troubled. He listens to his Lord–General, he obeys him, and in the back of his mind he thinks about how both of them have changed. The Lord–General is not the man he was, but then neither is Carn himself....

  On the other side of the line, Warleader Na'Tok waits patiently. He has taken the seat of a great man, but it is a position he has earned through patience. The Kha'Ri is torn between taking the war back to the enemy, or demanding Alliance assistance. While they debate, Na'Tok is content to wait. He will take boredom over death any day.

  Lyndisty wiles away the days in empty, frivolous pursuits. She goes to balls, she dances with eligible suitors, she breaks several hearts. She is the perfect daughter of a Centauri noble. But in her mind's eye she rehearses fighting styles, weapon techniques, tactics and strategies. For all that their tie is not one of blood, she is truly her father's daughter, even while she knows the need for secrecy. As her father once said, a weapon hidden is worth three revealed.

  Minister Durano watches her, as he watches everyone. He knows her secret. He knows her father's secret. Secrets are his food and drink (though not wine - he rarely drinks, and then only to maintain a semblance of normality). And yet this one he has not used. It is his own hidden weapon, and he ponders just how to employ it - for the good of the Republic, or for his own good? A mere year ago there would have been no question, but now.... times are changing. A dark ambition speaks to him, a seed that was always there, but never before realised. He is not a tool of Shadow or Vorlon, but of his own mind, trained to near–perfection in the course of his duty. He knows his mind, but not his future, and that troubles him.

  Lennier watches them all from his place in the shadows. No one talks to him, no one even seems to acknowledge that he exists. He is the Emperor's bodyguard, his confidant, his dark shadow. Some tried originally to gain his support, only to learn that he has no interest in their games, in their mini–wars, or even in the greater one. The only war he fights at present is the one for control of his soul, a war in which he continues to survive, but for which the cost is growing slowly, a day at a time. Soon there will be nothing left to save.

  Lord Kiro has long since lost whatever soul he once possessed. He sits in a darkened, abandoned room, lit only by flickering flames, and he looks at the artefact he has been given, the last remnant of an all–but–dead race. He looks at the thing growing within it, and he feeds it with his blood. Soon, he knows, it will awake, and he will ride it to his glory, and to the throne.

  Lady Mariel watches him, and trembles. No longer is she beautiful. No longer is she dressed in the finest of gowns. No longer does she eat the richest of foods. No longer is her mind the sharp blade beneath the soft cushion. Her body is scarred and blackened, her clothes are but rags, her stomach is eating away at her vitals. Her mind is filled with fear and a most unenlightened madness - and by thoughts of poison.

  Her sister–wife - not Daggair, whom she had murdered in the coldest blood, but Timov, now Lady Consort, Empress to some, although not to her face - dances with the nobles, her eyes always warily on her husband. He pretends not to notice, and she pretends not to have noticed that he has noticed. He would be surprised to learn of the things she has been doing behind his back, of the sacrifices and decisions she has made for the good of the Republic. He would be surprised to learn how much she cares about the people, not just his people, but hers also.

  Or maybe not. Emperor Mollari II understands and sees more than most give him credit for. In some things, however, he is sadly blind.

  And on another world many light years away, his friend, his enemy, Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar, seeks answers, seeks peace, seeks understanding. He has sought these things
for as long as he can remember, but with each passing day they slip further and further beyond his grasp.

  That is how matters stand now, two proud races at war, the same war that has raged for three years. There is a feeling in both camps that an end is near at hand, but what sort of end? And will it be possible for that ending to prove that war would have been better?

  All things are possible.

  * * *

  It was strange, thought Lyndisty of House Marrago, how swiftly she moved between forms, sometimes even with a speed that surprised herself, rarely she even surprised her father.

  She supposed that was a testament to the skill of his training. She also supposed it was a good thing. She could be almost anything she wanted: a happy, frivolous, giddy noblewoman, a true child of the Court, concerned only with balls and shopping and intrigue and the endless chatter of romance.

  But then, with a split second's motion, she could become cool and professional and dangerous. She could analyse politics and tactics and history almost instantly. To the few who even imagined her second persona, most notably of course her father, it was assumed that her public face was merely an act, an elaborate charade.

  They were wrong. Even her father was wrong, although that was not a thought she cared to admit. She was both people, both personalities, inhabiting the same body. She did not know where one form began and another ended. She did not even know which one was the true her.

  These feelings had been growing within her for a while, but her encounter with the outlaws some months ago had accelerated their growth. Her petty, giddy 'Court' mind told her to ignore them. These people were undesirables, they did not matter. If they wanted to work, then surely they could find work. How difficult could it be? No, they were just lazy, turning to banditry no doubt because of their innate criminal tendencies. Besides, they were only peasants.

  But then another part of her realised that was simply not true. What they had said to her, the anger and the frustration in their voices.... She did not know.

  Still, she was trying to forget. Sometimes knowledge and understanding were terrible burdens, and she tried to assuage them by burying herself in ignorance and idleness for a while. Her father had come to Court for a meeting of the Emperor's Council, and he had promised to take her shopping afterwards. There would be little to buy, of course. This beastly war had cut off most of the trade routes, but there might still be some bargains. She would need a new dress for the ball in a few weeks.