A Dark, Distorted Mirror. Volume 5 : Among the Stars, like Giants. Part 5 : The Three–Edged Sword addm-5

by Gareth D. Williams

"God's sake.... look at the mess you've made. No, we've all made it, but I've had enough of it." David walked towards the door, brushing past him angrily, pushing him aside. At the door he turned back. "Everything's going to hell in a handbasket, as a former friend of mine would say. It's a pity he isn't here. At least he'd be trying to fix this."

  "Get out."

  He did.

  General John J. Sheridan sat down at his desk, looking at the energy readouts. He recognised what David had not, that the sheer amount of energy could only have been generated by a Vorlon. Someone very stupid had annoyed one of them.

  "To hell with all of you," he whispered.

  Something was rubbing at the back of his skull, an itch he could not scratch. He had a name for that, though.

  Somehow he was not surprised.

  "You as well," he muttered. "Well, Sinoval, come on in and join the party, everyone else has."

  He looked the commpanel and sent out a quick signal. This line he knew would be working. If everything else on the station collapsed, this would still be working.

  "I know you're there," he said. "I think we need to talk."

  --- We are always ready for you, --- came the Vorlon's voice.

  "I'll be there in a minute. We should do this face to face, as it were. Oh, I suppose you know that Sinoval's on his way."

  --- We were aware. We are prepared. This is our stronghold. We will not allow it to be breached by such as him. ---

  "How soon we forget," he muttered. "Don't you lot always have a plan."

  * * *

  us

  * * *

  The jump gate was closed, barred and sealed against the travellers, the common wanderers, the pilgrims and the seekers. The station was protected, charmed and blessed by the Dark Stars and the Alliance vessels and the very presence of the Vorlons themselves.

  But that was not always enough.

  A jump point opened, and then another, and another. Ships emerged through them, ships crafted of living flesh, linked to the souls of their owners.

  The Vorlon fleet was a beautiful thing, but it was the beauty of a star exploding in the night: wondrous from a distance, terrifying up close.

  The voice that spoke was audible to every being on the station.

  We are your masters.

  We are your protectors.

  This place is ours.

  You will obey us.

  * * *

  you

  * * *

  Audible to every person except one....

  * * *

  will

  * * *

  What am I?

  At that moment, Delenn felt an intense, powerful hatred. Of John, for abandoning her; of herself, for abandoning him; and most of all of Sinoval.

  What am I?

  He had always been so sure, so confident. She could have managed that, once. Before the weight of her mistakes, both real and imagined, had weighed down on her so heavily. He did not seem to care about the mistakes he made, simply forgetting them and carrying on his way.

  What am I?

  Not who. She had been asked that question once before, and had not answered it, not properly, not in any way that could be called an answer, because the point of the question was that there was no answer, none that could be expressed to another.

  What am I?

  But that was a question she could answer, if only by a list of what she was not.

  I am not a mother.

  Her son had died in her body, his fading heartbeat echoing in her ears.

  I am not a wife.

  The man she loved had left her, abandoning her to this place of dust and memory and haunting echoes.

  I am not a warrior.

  She hated to kill, to fight. She had seen too much of that.

  I am not a leader.

  She had tried, and failed, so many times. This world did not need her leadership. She had betrayed and doomed her people and now it seemed she had doomed the Alliance as well.

  I am a healer.

  She paused, and dared to raise her head. It seemed so heavy.

  I am a healer.

  Everything was wounded. Her people, the Alliance, the galaxy. Everywhere she looked, she saw symptoms of the sickness. All she had been able to do was wipe flecks of blood from the mouth of the galaxy.

  I am a healer.

  She was.

  Breathing out harshly, Delenn slowly pulled herself to her feet. Her injured ankle throbbed at her, but she ignored it.

  I am a healer.

  "I am a healer," she said aloud, and the words seemed to invigorate her. The shadows trembled and fled before her newfound resolve.

  "I am a healer," she said, more loudly.

  The paths of the garden, that had seemed so dark and twisted, were now open and clear.

  She set off, walking firmly, with no hint of any of the wounds that pained her.

  * * *

  obey

  * * *

  He woke up, cold, and with no idea of where he was.

  Or even who he was.

  He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He had a feeling that he had been staring at a deeper darkness, one that was far more than the simple absence of light.

  A heart beating, that was it. The dying heartbeat in the sky.

  Black.

  It was black.

  There is danger. Remember.

  "Dexter Smith," he said, aloud. "My name is Dexter Smith."

  He heard a movement by his side, and strained to look. His every muscle protested, but he managed it. There was a woman sitting on a chair, her long legs tucked up underneath her. She was waking from sleep.

  He looked at her and looked again, not sure of what he was seeing. She was pretty, tall and slender, with shoulder–length blonde hair and delicate hands. And she was dying. He could see glimpses of a skeleton under the surface, the skin rotting and decaying, the smell of the grave rising from her.

  He blinked and concentrated, trying to force himself to see what was really there. The images of death faded as he looked at her again, although the miasma was still apparent.

  She stood up, unfolding carefully and delicately, a watchful eye on him. "Who am I?" she asked him, slowly and precisely.

  He closed his eyes again and breathed out. There is danger. Remember. My name is Dexter Smith. I am a Senator of Proxima Three. I am a war hero. I am a poker player. I am a Taurus. I am....

  "Talia," he said, with a slow sigh. "You're Talia, surname variable most of the time."

  "First name, too," she breathed. He looked at her for a third time and noticed the gun in her hand. She placed it on the table beside her, then walked forward and knelt by the side of the bed, taking his hand in her own. There was a flicker of electricity at the contact, and he almost jumped back. Her skin was cold and clammy, beaded with the moisture of the grave.

  "I'm glad you're back," she said. "I was worried."

  "There is danger," he said. "Remember."

  "Yes. That's what saved us. Vindrizi kept saying it, over and over again. It.... did something. You'll have to ask him what."

  "Where am I?"

  "A safe haven."

  "Are you alive?"

  She blinked, once. "Yes," she said, pressing her hand against the side of his face. "Don't I feel alive?"

  She didn't. He shivered at the touch of her skin. He could feel the bones beneath, shifting and cracking, a thousand tiny weaknesses and flaws spreading by the minute.

  "I don't know," he replied. "Am I alive?"

  "Yes," she breathed. "You're alive, Dexter."

  "Good." He paused, biting at his lower lip. "Good."

  "We'll be leaving tomorrow, as soon as you're ready to move. The others wanted to leave long ago, and most of them did, but Vindrizi said you couldn't be moved. It might be dangerous. Even taking you away from.... the warehouse might have been too dangerous."

  "Death."

  "He said you could do worse tha
n die. We're leaving tomorrow, going somewhere safe."

  "No such place." He looked at her and, concentrating, he could see the natural, ephemeral beauty of her face. "Where?"

  "Vindrizi says there's someone who'll be able to help. I'm not sure how much of it you remember, but I'll fill you in on everything later. We're going to see Sinoval."

  "Oh." He hesitated, and closed his eyes for the final time that night. He could see it again, rising from the Box.

  "Good," he said finally.

  * * *

  us

  * * *

  Sebastian could hear her footsteps from the other side of the station, even the other side of the galaxy. He could close his eyes and feel the warmth of her breath and smell the scent of her fear. He had touched her once, studied her soul and her spirit, and once he had done that to someone, to anyone, he would forevermore feel them in the back of his mind, particularly when they thought of him. More than once he had dreamed their nightmares, smiling with self–satisfaction at the aftereffects of his work.

  He was a man who took great pride in his job.

  Still, he gave no indication that he knew of her approach, not until she was directly behind him. She had brought her companion, the one so filled with anger and hatred and barely–suppressed fear. The companion remained several feet behind, too afraid to step into the circumference of his shadow.

  There had been no one to stop them, no guards. What would be the point? Nothing and no one could harm him, not while he was engaged in his holy work.

  He waited for precisely two and a half seconds, to let that scent of anticipation rise from her, and then he spoke.

  "A good day to you, Satai Kats," he said simply.

  Another man might have expected an angry response, bitter sarcasm or the like. But not him, and not from her. He knew her. He knew her soul. She was afraid, but she had a particular kind of iron resolve. She would never mask her fear with anger, not like her companion.

  Sebastian almost admired that.

  "And to you, Mr. Sebastian," she replied, a cold formality in her voice.

  "A marvellous view, is it not?" He gestured to the vista from the observatory. "It never ceases to remind me just how small and insignificant we are. We mortals, beneath the shadow of space, with the light from the stars so faint, so far away, and yet so beautiful. Very few are truly capable of staring into the infinite, even fewer from my home. We are a rare breed, those of us who can do that and remain unchanged."

  "It is a truly an impressive sight," she acknowledged. "But tell me, to what precisely are you referring? Space, or the Vorlon fleet?"

  Outside, surrounding the station, the Vorlon ships swam lazily, beautiful and terrible, with a constant air of menace. Sebastian knew she was trying to decide whether to think of them as birds or fish, flying or floating, and he scorned the triviality of her mind. She saw more than most, but she was still so.... small.

  So filled with sin.

  They had all been. So many of them, filled with sin and licentiousness and small dreams. They had to be purified, for the salvation of their immortal souls. He had opened them to the heavens and prayed to his Gods, prayed for the salvation of humanity. And as he had stared into the infinite in the body of the last whore, his Gods had come to him.

  "Both, of course," he said simply. "It is a useful lesson to remember, for all of us. It matters not what we think we know, or what we imagine we can do. We can bestride space like a colossus, or split existence down to the smallest essence. We can walk among dead worlds and we can cross the stars.

  "And yet, whatever we achieve, we are always less than we would wish."

  "I seem to recall someone telling me of a race who believed the same thing."

  "It is not uncommon."

  "They realised they would always be less than their Gods, so they sought out their Gods and killed them, and thus they became more."

  Sebastian smiled. He'd known that, of course. If she was testing him, she would have to do a great deal better than that. "That race of which you speak.... the Gods pursued them for their hubris and reduced their world to ashes and dust, as you did to my people's for their crime against you. As my people did to you in turn."

  His smile grew broader - not wider, for his smile was never anything but a thin, razor line of faint colour against the pallor of his face - but longer. "Do not try to test me, Satai. Or should I call you 'my lady'?"

  She twitched, once, involuntarily.

  He reached forward and touched the necklace she wore. A sign of vanity. It did not matter how small or how personal, jewellery was a sign of vanity, and vanity was a sin and sins were to be punished. Her face was very close to his, and he was impressed to see fear openly expressed in her eyes. She did not try to hide it, did not try to lie, did not try to mask it with false bravado or anger.

  "Have you found him yet?" she whispered.

  "Your husband is long dead, Satai."

  "You know of whom I am speaking."

  "I know."

  "He will kill you."

  Sebastian's free hand caressed the silver top of his cane. His one excess, a small one, and necessary. His cane was the instrument by which he brought justice and purification. It had to look impressive to instil fear into the hearts of the unvirtuous.

  "Then, Satai, you will have to wait and see. It is said that the poor hunter chases his prey. The wise hunter waits where he knows his prey will arrive. I have spent almost two years gathering information, learning his weaknesses and his vulnerabilities. He will come here, he will walk up to me, and I shall destroy him."

  "He's defeated better than you."

  "There are none better than me. Primarch Sinoval is coming here. I can feel the ship of the dead growing closer all the time. We know what he intends, and we will destroy him. I told you that I know all his weaknesses, Satai. All of them. It is a commendably short list."

  Power crackled through his staff, and through him.

  And through her.

  She cried out and slumped to the floor, shaking. He tapped his cane against the floor and a wave of energy shot through the room. It poured into Tirivail before she could even move, and slammed her into the wall. She fell to the floor, unconscious and still.

  Kats was still conscious, but shaking. He gently tapped his cane against the floor again and she cried out again.

  "It was very convenient of you to come and find me, but I would have sent for you in any event. It will be.... oddly fitting that I destroy him here, beneath the gaze of my lords."

  Kats looked up at him, and the fear in her eyes was more pronounced now.

  "Weakness such as yours always leads to downfall in the end.

  "Watch shortly, and I shall demonstrate."

  * * *

  YOU

  * * *

  Here we are, all of us.

  There could be a worse group from which to assemble an army, but few spring to mind.

  The Brotherhood Without Banners, raiders and ravagers and monsters. They sought profit and war, mercenaries and soldiers in a galaxy which, briefly, seemed to need neither. They look to me for inspiration and purpose.

  The Tak'cha, over–zealous, dangerously fanatic. They are butchers who will scour the galaxy in their holy war if left unchecked, and the only leader I have given them is a man who has already betrayed more lords than I care to count.

  My Soul Hunters. Not warriors, but scholars and custodians. Once they went to war and filled the whole galaxy with blood, spreading terror where they walked. Not even death was a safe haven from us. Is that the fate to which I am dooming the galaxy?

  All that keeps these people together is me.

  They call me a monster, they call me a heretic, a blasphemer, an abomination.

  They can call me whatever they like. I do not care. Their words cannot hurt me, their anger cannot harm me, their hatred is not a weapon I fear.

  Am I not still their saviour?

  They call me Accursed, and they are right, but n
ot in the way they believe.

  I think they will find that every curse has a way to undo it. Nothing is written in stone, and even if it were, stones can be shattered.

  I know no fear.

  I feel no pain.

  And I have business with you, Sebastian.

  I could have hoped for more of us, but I will use what we have.

  Sinoval stepped to the very edge of the precipice, staring into space. He closed his eyes.

  "Susan," he said.

  "Yes," came her reply. She was not here, not on the precipice, but she was inside Cathedral, and thus as near as if she stood in his own shadow.

  "We are ready. Wait to a count of five hundred, and take the fleet in.

  "I have faith in you."

  "What...?"

  It was too late.

  Sinoval jumped.

  * * *

  WILL

  * * *

  Looking back at my life, it seems that until this point it was merely long, quiet years of boredom followed by a few quick and terrifying weeks in which people seemed to want to kill me.

  That is not quite right, of course. My childhood years were neither long, nor, truly, boring. I had friends. I had the usual childish activities and concerns. I had family. And those few terrifying weeks were not filled with people trying to kill me. I was incidental, little more than a bystander. Of all the great players on that stage, only G'Kar knew I even existed, and his thoughts were doubtless far from me. To the rest of them - General Sheridan, Primarch Sinoval, Delenn - I was just another in a series of numbers.

  Some of these great people I would meet later. Some I would not, but that does not change my point at all. Every one of those numbers is a real person, with their own lives and their own dreams. Every sentient life destroyed is a dream never to be known again. Primarch Sinoval once said that the greatest leaders are those who can look at the numbers and see just numbers and not people, or so I was told.

  I cannot do that, because I remember when I was just a number. Afraid, alone, missing my home and my family so very badly, encountering death for the first time.

  It is a frightening thing, to be a number.

  L'Neer of Narn, Learning at the Prophet's Feet.

  G'Kar ran as fast as he could from that dark and bloody charnel room, trying to force the sight of all those bodies out of his mind. He had things to do, and quickly. He could feel all his achievements and dreams running through his fingers like sand. He could see all those who had died in his quest watching him, disappointed in his failure.