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| Volume 4: A Future, Born in Pain | Part I: The Fiery Trial Through Which we Pass |
HER delirium, if that was what it was, had passed, and Delenn, recently anointed the Blessed, awoke from her slumber with a clear head. She did not know how much time had passed. It was all.... difficult to judge here.
Looking around, she noticed that a bowl of water and some cloths had been placed on the table. She rose awkwardly, and stretched. Then she remembered the globe. Vejar's globe. A pile of dust on the table.
Hard to believe it had once been her hope for the future.
She closed her eyes in silent despair. They had her now. What they would do to her, she did not know. She was not sure if she truly cared. Vejar had spoken of some sort of future for her, which was why she could not die. A choice.
Another friend betrayed, if Vejar could still be called that. He had betrayed her, although on orders from another, and.... there had been no malice in his voice. No dark intentions.... just shepherding her towards a destiny.
Angrily she shoved the bowl from the table, and water splashed across the floor. She was not a puppet or a toy, to be pushed this way and that! The Vorlons, and now the technomages, they all seemed to want something from her. But what?
It was times like this she wished she were Sinoval. To be always so sure.... He had denied his destiny and dared to forge his own path. She wished she possessed the ruthlessness for something like that, but she did not feel she could have walked as alone as he did. She had friends, people she cared for dearly.... and that thought had sheltered her greatly. She had John....
She had Lyta. Delenn closed her eyes and tried to reach out to her friend. A.... a sort of bond existed between them. A legacy from their both having been host to Kosh. She had used that bond once before to get word to John, to call for his aid. Could it work now?
She concentrated long and hard, but eventually she gave up. She could feel nothing. She was not a telepath, after all. Perhaps Lyta was just too far away. Perhaps Z'ha'dum was blocked from such signals.
Perhaps the Vorlons did not want Lyta to receive any such message.
That thought struck Delenn with a chill to her spine. The Vorlons had sent her here after all. Sent her here to die. They would not want her friends coming to her rescue, would they?
She shook her head sadly, and prayed that Lyta had received her message. She had tried to explain just how much of a friend the red-haired telepath had been. She was one of the few humans who had accepted her without reservation.
Delenn stepped over the discarded bowl and walked to the door, pushing at it gently. It was still locked. Evidently they were still deciding what to do with her. She did not want to speculate on what their options were.
She returned to her bed, and tried to meditate.
* * * * * * *
It had been a while since Londo had last seen Lethke, and he had to admit the last few years had seen the Brakiri well. He looked considerably cleaner and smarter than the last time, although not noticeably happier.
"We would have brought out the full presentation band for you, Emperor Mollari," he said dryly. "However, as you can see.... we have been a little.... occupied here."
"I did see indeed. Was that really Cathedral out there?"
"No," said Lethke smoothly. "It was an entirely different millennia-old flying fortress packed full of demons and ghosts and monsters." He smiled. "Or am I not allowed to jest with you now that you have risen so far?"
"Jest all you like, old friend," Londo said, smiling slightly. He had missed Lethke's dry wit. "I am glad someone can see me and not this costume. Whoever thought white was an appropriate colour for the Emperor, hmm? Purple.... now that I could.... Ah." He waved his hand in disgust. "Babbling again. Ignore me. So, is.... he here?"
"Primarch Sinoval? Yes, he is here. I have met him once before, of course. An.... unsettling man, to be sure, but an interesting one. He has asked to meet you."
"Really? I suppose I should be honoured. Is G'Kar here?" Londo was relieved when Lethke nodded.
"He arrived yesterday. He has not yet made any report to the Council as to his activities, but he has been in seclusion with his.... Ranger associates. He is also aware that you are here."
"Good. Yes.... I am glad he got here safely. I wish I knew how he managed to sneak into the Imperial Palace, but I am sure he has his.... ways. So, Lethke.... where is Delenn? It has been a while."
The Brakiri's face fell. "You have not heard?" he whispered.
"Heard what? We've had next to no news from here recently.... and I've been travelling the last few days. Has something happened to her? Her.... her transformation, it has not relapsed?"
"No. It is worse than that. The Shadows have her. One of their.... agents. She is.... in their hands now."
"Great Maker," Londo breathed. "Is she.... alive?"
"We do not know. Sheridan has gone to their world to find her, but.... I do not see how he can return. Nothing has been right since she was taken, but we do what we can. An alliance with the Centauri Republic would serve us well."
"I did not come here to bind my people up in your wars, Lethke," Londo replied, a little more firmly than he had intended. His thoughts were on Delenn. A prisoner of the Shadows.... Great Maker! "I came here to speak of peace. The Narns have a representative here?"
"Yes. An Ambassador, by the name of G'Kael. A quiet fellow, for a Narn."
"Which would put him just a little louder than the entire Centarum put together," Londo observed. "I would like a meeting arranged with him, and with G'Kar. We need peace.... and badly."
"I agree. Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar has been informed that you are here. Allow me to escort you to your quarters, and the chambers we have set aside for you and your entourage. You may if you wish make a presentation before the Council at any time today. We have...." He smiled ruefully. "We have much to talk about these days, but little actually to do."
"Good. I would like to talk with G'Kar, and with this.... G'Kael. Then.... discussions regarding an Ambassador to be posted here. I have.... a few candidates. Mostly people I want to be rid of and burden onto you, but we need not tell the others that, need we? Trade pacts, treaties of neutrality.... all those things I will be happy to discuss.
"But we will not join your war, Lethke. The Centauri have suffered enough already."
Lethke bowed. "I accept your wishes, Londo. But if G'Kar and Delenn and the Vorlons are right.... then there can be no staying out of this war. It will come to you, if you do not go to it."
"He speaks right," said a new voice, one Londo had not heard before. A voice filled with the timbre of authority, a voice used to leading, a voice that could rattle buildings, and stir souls, and instil the fear of all things dark into a craven heart.
A Minbari was standing at the entrance to this small audience chamber. The area should of course have been cordoned off and well-protected by the security forces, but Londo would not have been surprised if they had just stepped aside and let him past.
He was tall and standing proud, in black warrior garb with a strange badge on his chest. A compacted pike hung from his belt, and traces of silver shone from the black tops of his boots. It was his eyes that caught Londo most of all - dark and piercing, they seemed to be studying him intently, seeing through the flesh to his very soul. Which, given who this man was, did not seem impossible.
"Londo Mollari," Londo said, introducing himself and stepping forward. He held his hands out, palms raised upwards in the traditional greeting of Centauri nobles. "Emperor of the Centauri Republic, Guardian of Centauri Prime, Light of the Fourth Something and various other pointless titles."
The Minbari stepped forward and clasped Londo's wrists. He knew the greeting, then. Londo was impressed. "I am Sinoval." That was it. That was all he needed, really.
Londo stepped back and glanced at Lethke. "This is an impressive gathering you have here, Lethke. Several of the most powerful people in the galaxy." He looked back to Sinoval. "Why have you come here? Treaties and pacts and all the other rigmarole of diplomacy?"
"No," came a simple response. "There are things I need to say to the Council.... to others. Warnings, prophecies even."
A chill gripped Londo's chest at the mention of the word 'prophecy'. "Ah. How well were your warnings received?"
"I have not spoken to them yet. I was waiting."
"Waiting? What for?" Londo had an uncomfortable feeling that he knew the answer.
"You." Londo cursed inwardly. Perhaps Timov was right. He was turning into a prophet. He hadn't thought he had the figure to be a Seeress.
"Well. Now, I am here."
Sinoval smiled, a strange gesture that looked unnatural on him. "You and Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar are invited to visit Cathedral at your convenience. There is someone there you must meet, and something you must see. Then I think you will understand more."
Sinoval inclined his head in a slight bow, then turned and left.
"There," Londo said after a short pause, "is a very scary person."
"He has changed since last I saw him," Lethke observed. "I cannot explain it, but.... No, it is nothing. These times.... cast a gloom over me. Come, Londo. I will show you and your staff and your bodyguards and our bodyguards to your chambers, and you can regale me with all the goings-on at the Royal Court these days."
"You may regret that offer," Londo replied in jest, but his hearts were not really up for jokes. Neither was Lethke's.
* * * * * * *
"Lemme guess," drawled Sector 301's Security Chief Zack Allan in his I-really-could-be-doing-something-so-much-more-interesting-than-this tone of voice. "Cause of death: knife wound to the neck."
"Well, the forensic guys are going to take a while to get back to us," replied Jack, his second. "But it looks like it."
"Yeah. I could tell that, you see.... thanks to all the various subtle hints and clues and intuitions you get when you've been doing this job long enough. You see, I spot things that some other people might miss. For example, the stiff had a big, sharp knife stuck in his neck, and he was dead. Therefore, cause of death."
"Dunno how you do it, Chief," replied Jack. "Puts the rest of us to shame."
"Well, gotta be good at something." Zack looked up and made a cursory visual inspection of the bar. He was bored. Very bored. Time was when a murder would at least have piqued his interest for a while, but there was no real detective work to do here. There rarely was, at least not in the Pit. Maybe in some of the upper sectors you could get those interesting locked room mysteries with a million suspects and some brilliant amateur sleuth who'd step in and lend a hand, but down here in 301, there usually wasn't a lot of doubt. When one drunk person sliced open another drunk person in broad daylight in front of like six zillion witnesses, there was only so much you could do to drag the case out until teatime.
Which looked like the case here. Well, there were two witnesses, rather than a zillion, and Zack had a feeling neither suspect nor stiff had been especially drunk, but it was pretty damned obvious who was guilty.
If he didn't know better, he'd assume Mr. Trace had either set this up, or sent his man to kill Smith and it had simply gone wrong, but Zack did know better. As a result he was buying the 'unprovoked attack' theory put across by the barman.
"He just.... he just went mad," the barman was saying, for the umpteenth time. What was his name? Zack had forgotten. Oh, it couldn't have been important. The Ombuds down here didn't worry so much about evidence or due process or reliable testimony or whatever. They just did what Mr. Trace said and then went home early to watch the vids.
Zack could relate.
"He just started punching him, punching and punching. He broke a chair on Mr. Drake's back. And then.... oh, my God.... he got out a knife, and...."
Zack stopped listening. Yeah, yeah. They got the picture already. Sheesh. Someone just take a statement and get on with it. The body had been removed by the forensics guys, who had then proceeded to check for.... whatever stuff it was they checked for. They had spent the whole time arguing about who was sexier: some blonde woman on some soap opera, or some other blonde woman on some other soap opera. Finally, the guys had amicably agreed to differ.
Real co-operation. Understanding each other's differences. Maybe there was hope for the Pit yet.
Yeah, right.
"What do you think, Allan?"
Zack turned and saw Mr. Trace standing next to him. His hands were in his trouser pockets, and he was looking around with an expression that might have been sadness, or might have been disgust. Probably both.
"Well, the story is, the suspect.... this Dexter Smith guy.... just snapped, and attacked Drake. Beat him up, slapped him a couple of times, at least once with a chair, and then drove a knife into his neck."
Trace nodded, knowing as well as Zack did that that was all rubbish. Sure, Smith looked a fairly hard guy, but Drake was big, and very mean. No way would he have gone down that easily. Besides, judging from the position the body had been in....
"What do you think set him off?"
"Hard to tell," Zack replied, scratching at his ear. "The suspect had been drinking. Not too much according to the barman, but you know how it is with some people. One glass and they're ready to take on the whole world. Maybe drugs or something. Could have been some psychiatric thing. That.... what is it.... Minbari War Syndrome."
"I heard Smith quit Earthforce because of some combat stress problem."
"Yeah, that could be it."
"Could be." Trace shook his head. "A sad day. Drake was a good man. A damned good man."
"Have you told his missus yet?"
"Just on my way round now. I wanted to see what you'd found out first. You are going to find this guy, aren't you, Allan?"
"No problem. We'll get him."
"Good. You're a good man, Allan. I know I can rely on you."
Trace slapped him gently on the back, then turned and left. Zack looked around for a while and then left to get something to eat.
* * * * * * *
In one sense it was all completely irrational. Ambassador David Sheridan had spent all his life meeting and mixing with aliens. He had done business adjudicating the fates of empires with people he wouldn't trust to clean his shoes. He had made speeches of undying friendship to people he knew were just waiting to stab him in the back.
Throughout his entire career he had never let personal dislike get in the way of the necessity of his work. The needs of his people were more important than personal feelings.
Until now.
It was Delenn. He just couldn't seem to think straight concerning her. Of course he had plenty of rational reasons for disliking her - leaving aside the issue of what she had done to Earth, there was the way she had seduced John, caused him to betray his Government and led him to a deathbed on some alien world.
On the other hand, he had always been able to concentrate on the greater good before.
The Shadows themselves had discussed her presence here, and they had left the matter entirely up to him. They were sure that she carried nothing, either on her person or in her ship, that could pose a threat. There were no explosive devices, no long-range tracking signals, or spy cameras or whatever other interesting technology the Vorlons could have come up with. They had no fears about anyone mounting any sort of rescue attempt. Z'ha'dum was well protected, they would have ample warning of any oncoming fleet, nothing less than the entire complement of the Vorlon fleet would pose a threat in any case, and for some reason the Shadows seemed convinced that would not happen.
So, the Shadows had given him three options: kill her here and now, give her a Keeper and send her home, or take her to Proxima for trial.
The second, Ambassador Sheridan had dismissed out of hand. It was a fine idea, but the Alliance had that damned technomage, and he would definitely be looking for a Keeper. As Delenn's only real power base was Kazomi 7 it would be pointless sending her anywhere else. She had no influence in the Minbari Federation any more, and besides.... Sinoval was being kept well in hand.
Sheridan had contemplated trying to turn her without the aid of a Keeper. It had worked with Parlonn a thousand years ago, and with Neroon recently. They were both warrior caste however, and something within them appealed more to the whole ethos of 'survival of the fittest' and 'growth through chaos'. Delenn had had too much indoctrination from the Vorlons for that to work without some major genetic modification, and the technomage would spot that as well.
So: kill her now, or take her home for trial.
From a purely personal viewpoint, he just wanted her dead. He was sick of her and her whole infernal race. John would be gone by now, his last days spent trapped in wires and tubes and machinery in the company of aliens. Delenn had done that to him. Just kill her and be done with it.
But.... the greater good. At Proxima she could be put on trial, public trial for her war crimes. Clark would receive an even greater boost in popularity. It would show the public yet again the benefits of their alliance with the Shadows. A boost in public confidence, another victory in a propaganda war. It would also be a vital stepping stone for the next stage in the rebirth of humanity: war with the Alliance.
He rubbed at his eyes wearily. He was tired, and he couldn't think. He had been putting the good of humanity above his own desires all his life. Surely he was entitled to one act of selfishness now?
She had killed his son. She had killed his daughter, and his grandchildren, and she had been responsible for the death of his wife. Everyone he had ever loved had been lost to her.
He sipped at his tea, and realised it had long since gone cold. He sighed. A man was not meant to outlive his children, least of all his grandchildren. That was.... not the way of things.
But the good of humanity. Surely that was worth more? Humanity could benefit from this far more than just his desire to put her down here and now.
Why had she come? What benefit had she hoped to gain from this little stratagem?
He looked up, hoping to ask Neroon. He knew her better than most after all. There was no sign of him. The Minbari was gone.
Sighing, Ambassador Sheridan prepared another cup of tea. He was thinking about Proxima.
* * * * * * *
Londo's quarters were.... adequate. Surprisingly so, given the state the whole of Kazomi 7 had been in the last time he had been here.
The room was comfortable, large enough for his purposes, possessed all the amenities a visiting dignitary might need, near enough to the main Council chambers, and with a quite stunning view of the city, which seemed so much more alive since he had last been here.
Which meant, of course, that all his retainers hated the place.
"Quite inadequate," blustered one. "Too small," said another. "Security provisions are worthless." "Barbarian little cultures.... they have no idea how to treat a civilised ruler."
Londo listened to all this with a smile. Things felt almost normal. He considered letting all the courtiers know that the rooms were fine, but then they would only find something else to complain about.
He was looking out at the city. The suns were shining. He could see children running and playing. There was a shrine he could just make out. It seemed wonderfully.... peaceful. He made a mental note to ask Lethke what it was.
Everything was so different. He had last seen this place over a year and a half ago, and then it had been a bombed-out wreck, haunted by monsters and ghosts and demons. He had fled through those streets in mortal peril of his life. Lennier had left some vital part of his soul behind. Delenn had nearly died here.
Delenn....
Londo wondered what had happened to her. More than anything else, more so even than G'Kar, she had a talent for making the most convoluted problem seem so wonderfully simple. She possessed a good heart, and a shining soul. He could see that as he looked around him. Everything in the city bore her touch.
And now she was gone. Perhaps never to return.
"I trust the rooms are to your satisfaction?" said a familiar voice.
Londo turned around with a start, and then he noticed who it was. "Gah! G'Kar, do not do that to me! I am an old man. My hearts are not in the best of shape, least of all after the rigours of the last few.... well, years. Great Maker!" He began to breathe harder. "A wonderful sight, isn't it?"
"A miracle," came the reply. "A triumph of hope over despair."
"We have Delenn to thank for it."
G'Kar nodded, stepping out on to the balcony. "Indeed we do."
"You have heard, then? Ah.... are there any plans for a rescue?"
"I have as many of my Rangers as can be spared out gathering information, but they are stretched very thin. Of course, Captain Sheridan has gone to try to rescue her. I fear he may simply be throwing his life away in a foolish quest for revenge."
"How does it look out there? The galaxy, I mean. I have not been seeing as much since I took on that damned uncomfortable chair. We have been.... considerably out of touch for a long time."
"Tense. The Shadows have been moving at last, attacking Drazi and Brakiri territories. They have not moved against the Alliance directly.... yet. The Minbari.... well, they are completely falling apart . There are rumours of a civil war, even. One of their major colonies was attacked a few months ago, at the same time as.... the Battle at Epsilon Three. We have had no word from any of the prominent Minbari leaders except Delenn."
"Sinoval is here. Have you seen him?"
"No, but I knew he was here. He has requested a private appointment with me later." G'Kar shook his head sadly. "He is a very different person from the one I met at Babylon Four. Something has claimed him. He was interested in peace and unity then, but now.... I cannot be sure.
"And of course, our two races are at each other's throats.... again."
"That will end, G'Kar. And soon. I promise you. I have made approaches to your representative here.... G'Kael. He will contact his Government, and we will begin peace negotiations. The Alliance should support me in this. Both of us have lost too many to this war."
"Do you think you can get past all those who desire war? Those who cannot see beyond the cycle of hatred?"
Londo sighed, and leant on the balcony wall, looking out across the city again. "Can you, G'Kar?"
There was a long silence. "It is not easy. It never will be. For.... years we have hated your race for what you did to us, and that hatred corrupted us. I fear we now fight simply because we do not know how to stop.... but.... yes. For the good of my people, and in memory of the few good Centauri I have ever met.... I can see beyond hatred, to the needs of peace."
"I sometimes wonder if you are not right in your opinion of us. I am Centauri. I am proud of my people, and of my Republic.... but Great Maker! How much of it was built on blood? My ascension saw me swimming in it.... and I reached the throne only thanks to the machinations of a madman who would rather see everything destroyed than reach out his hand in a plea for help.
"Still.... I have seen too many of my people die not to want to end this now. There will be peace, no matter what must be given away to secure it." A faint smile touched his face. "We won't give up the homeworld, though."
"We won't give up ours," replied G'Kar, with solemnity.
Londo laughed. "We don't want it. I have never been there, but I have heard things from those who have. Hot, dry, dusty.... the air so thick you cannot breathe it...."
"Yes, Majesty. We do apologise. We should have designed our world so that you would find it more amenable."
"Hah! Humour from a Narn. Will true wonders never cease?"
"Probably not."
"Well.... I do not know about your lot, but I think I can get my army to see reason. Marrago is the Lord-General again. He is a good man, a good friend, and his soldiers almost worship him. As long as our worlds are protected he will agree to an accord, and if he does, so will his men. Of course, after the recent battle at the homeworld.... it may be harder to convince some people that we need peace. There have been cries in the Court that we should.... hah, listen to this.... sweep you all before us, and take over your homeworld. As if we were not ready to fall entirely not two months ago."
"Your victory, Mollari. It was a little.... easy, was it not?"
"Easy? I suppose. What are you getting at?"
"There were rumours in your Court.... Rumours I heard while I was there. Some of your soldiers seemed to think the battle was not won by them alone. Some seemed to say the battle was not even a victory.... but a massacre. Did events fit with your generals' assessments of how the battle would turn out?"
"No," Londo admitted. "They were predicting a bloody stand-off.... but so what if things were a little easier than that? Perhaps Marrago was merely being pessimistic. And rumours.... in the Royal Court! Bah! I would bet you a ducat to a duck that not one hundredth of them are true."
"Warleader G'Sten testified before the Kha'Ri upon his return. I managed to gain access to the report yesterday. He claimed that an alien fleet came out of nowhere and wiped out his ships. He claimed your ships did not even fire once."
"The lies of a defeated general trying to pass the blame elsewhere!"
"G'Sten is my uncle. If he says there was alien assistance.... then I believe him."
"Him over me? Who were these aliens he claimed to see? Great big flying cows? How about a herd of spoo descending from the heavens?"
"He did not see." The Narn was maintaining his calm equanimity before Londo's aggression. That only made Londo all the angrier. "His sensors could not track them clearly."
"Hah! So there are no records. He is lying, G'Kar. I know nothing about any.... mysterious alien allies come to our aid. I wish I could say I did. We need all the help we can get. But no.... I am convinced that our fleet acted alone, and yours was simply overconfident."
"I fear you blind yourself to the truth, Mollari.... but I hope you are right. I must go now. I am expecting a report from an agent in the Kha'Ri soon. I had never realised how much I would miss the Great Machine. There were times when being unable to touch, to eat, to drink.... times when I missed them all. But without it, we are all but blind and deaf in the galaxy.
"I will talk to you tomorrow, Mollari."
"Goodbye, G'Kar." Londo was still looking out across the city. He did not turn round as his friend left.
* * * * * * *
"Something's wrong."
"Well, of course something's wrong." Commander David Corwin watched as Lyta Alexander absently brushed back a lock of her hair. "The Shadows got an agent on to Kazomi Seven, kidnapped Delenn, and got her to their homeworld without anyone noticing. I think that's a fairly accurate description of something being wrong."
"That's not what I meant," he said, sighing, wondering just why he was here. He and Lyta had never really got along very well. There had been flashes of empathy over the years since she had come aboard to serve as the ship's telepath, but for the most part the two had had as little to do with each other as possible.
Still, who else was there? There had been a time when he could have confided in the Captain about everything. They had served together ever since the Battle of Mars, half a lifetime ago. But that had been before his injuries.
Corwin had not been able to take his problems or his suspicions to the Captain during his time in hospital, and.... there was just something about him now. He had obviously gone through a great deal, near-death only to be miraculously cured and have the woman he loved captured by his sworn enemies all on the same night.... It was no wonder he was distracted.
So, who else was there for him to talk to? Mary was gone. Michael was gone. He had never really had many other friends, always content with the few he had. Now most of them had gone, and he was alone.
"It's just...." he said again, struggling to find the right words. "Something just feels wrong."
"So you said."
"You know what I mean," he snapped, then immediately regretted it. "Why are we going to Z'ha'dum alone? We won't be able to fight our way through a Shadow fleet if there is one there. What does the Captain hope to do?"
"He loves Delenn, and she's a prisoner there. I think he's more than willing to fight his way through."
"And sacrifice this whole ship? I.... like Delenn as well. Oh, did I really just say that? Okay, she's Minbari, yes, and she's done a lot I can never forgive her for, but I can see that she and the Captain are in love, and he used to be happy when he was with her, and it's hardly for me to judge. But I can't think the Captain means to throw away this ship and everyone on it for a futile chance to rescue her.
"In fact," he continued after a pause. "I know he isn't. I've seen him angry before, and this isn't it. He doesn't want to rampage through every Shadow ship between here and Delenn. If he did, he'd at least give us a briefing on tactics, have some sort of strategy prepared. As it is.... I don't know what he's going to do when he gets to Z'ha'dum, other than pray for a miracle. Let me tell you, I've seen enough miracles happen around him, but spending every engagement praying for one isn't exactly my idea of a stress-free lifestyle."
Lyta raised an eyebrow. "You want a stress-free lifestyle? You, whom I happen to know hasn't spent a night off this ship ever since Epsilon?"
"I've had nowhere to go to but here."
She sighed. "I don't know Captain Sheridan as well as you do, but he has been through a great deal. He was in a coma for a long time, and paralysed for months. Things like that.... change someone. And then with Delenn...." She closed her eyes. "I wish I could sense her."
"You think something's wrong as well."
She shook her head. "Nothing, just headaches, bad dreams. Delenn and I have.... well, I don't think there is a word for it. An empathic connection of some kind. I can usually.... sense what she's feeling, maybe even where she is. She can do the same for me. It hasn't always been fun, let me tell you. For someone so strait-laced and innocent, you wouldn't believe some of the dreams she's been...." Corwin looked at her, and Lyta coughed.
"Well," she continued, somewhat embarrassed. "I haven't been able to sense anything. It's as if our link was just.... cut off. I'm worried."
And that's not all, she thought, casting her mind to suspicions carried but not shared, to words she could not voice. To a meeting with Ulkesh. He had ordered her to come here. The last time she had come on a mission with Corwin, Ulkesh had been furious on her return. This time he had not refused her request to go. He had actually ordered her to go.
But she could not tell Corwin that. She just couldn't.
"I'm sure there's nothing to worry about," she said lamely.
"I wish I could believe you."
Yes. So do I.
* * * * * * *
"You've come down in the world a bit, haven't you?" Talia said, sitting down.
"Look who's talking." Smith sat down opposite her. She had obviously been here for a few days. There was a makeshift sleeping area, and a small portable comm unit.
She shrugged. The shadows cast by the dim torchlight made her seem harsher than she actually was. "I've been in worse. I've been in better, too. But.... this is the sort of place my job takes me."
"Your job. Yes.... professional saboteur?"
"You know that's not fair," she snapped. "Certain.... very powerful people wanted the war with the Minbari.... delayed, if not stopped. I was placed on the Babylon to try to accomplish that. I wasn't going to hurt anyone."
"Oh. You had a conscience?"
"Not really. It just wasn't part of my job."
"So, what job brought you here?"
"I can't tell you that."
"Don't then." He sat back, and sighed. "You know you won't get out of Sector Three-o-one without my help, don't you?"
"There are ways."
"They obviously haven't worked, or you wouldn't still be here. I managed to overhear a warning announcement that you were wanted for.... what was it? Treason against the Government, I remember, and that you were armed and dangerous." He smiled. "That last is certainly the truth."
"Thanks," she replied dryly. "So what are you here for?"
"I got a little too close to someone who really doesn't like to be crossed. One of his men attacked me in a bar, we fought.... I ended up killing him."
"Ah.... That someone.... it wouldn't be a Mr. Trace, would it?"
"Now, I know you weren't reading my mind. I'd have felt it. Lucky guess?"
"More or less. I had a run-in with him as well. He's got my partner. He's.... involved with something very serious, very high-ranking."
"He's got high-ranking friends in Main Dome, I know that."
"I'd place a bet on IPX. We were investigating them when he jumped us."
"So what are IPX up to?"
She frowned. "I don't know exactly, but our people are involved."
"Our people?"
"Telepaths. You're one, too. Don't try to deny it."
"My mother was a telepath. I'm not. I can't read minds. I just.... get certain hunches from time to time. And I can tell when someone's trying to read my mind. A bit of other stuff. I'm no telepath."
"That's enough to make you one of us. We can help you."
"Yeah?" he snapped. "I saw how you tried to help my mother. I'll pass, thanks."
She shrugged. "Time was, you wouldn't have had an option. Oh well. Why are you here?"
"It's a good place to hide and lie low, until I figure whether Security really are going to be after me."
"Not what I meant, sorry. Why are you taking on Trace? I was sent here, and he's hurting people like us. I have to protect them. But why you? For that matter, why are you even in Sector Three-o-one? Was there nowhere else you could have gone?"
"No, there were plenty of places I could have gone after I left Earthforce. Job offers left, right and centre. I couldn't take them, though. I couldn't be their fabled hero. Because it was all a lie. I saw too much, did too much. I've been a soldier almost all my life, and.... it was the wrong choice, I think. I spent all the war trying to live up to another man, and I couldn't.
"So I came back here. It was my home once.... of a sort. Not much has changed, to be honest. But Trace is abusing these people here. Most of them don't have a choice about living here. No one cares. No one looks after them. Security's corrupt, Trace owns all the local politicians and councillors.
"Someone has to do something."
"A regular philanthropist."
"Not really. I've spent over a year and a half trying to save the world and protect the galaxy. I'm not the right person to do that. Ah, but here.... small victories are every bit as important as big ones. I might not be able to save Proxima, but perhaps I can save the Pit."
She leant forward, her eyes shining. "I've been toying with a couple of ideas recently," she said. "I could use some help, though."
"What did you have in mind?"
"Trace. I find out what he's up to with IPX. You find some way to expose the corruption and help the people here."
"So, you're willing to work with me, instead of beating me up?"
She shrugged. "One of the first lessons I learned from the Corps was knowing when to ask for help."
"Fine. I'll admit I could use some. So, what did you have in mind?"
She told him.
* * * * * * *
No matter how fast she ran, they seemed to be gaining on her.
Her breath was searing her throat, her lungs were burning, her legs weakening. Only sheer terror kept her going.
"You promised me I'd be safe," she gasped, hoarse. She looked up and saw him there. He had promised her, all those years ago.
"What do you want?" he had asked her. "To be safe," she had replied.
They were just behind her now. They had a syringe. She knew what was in it. It was the sleepers. They would inject her with it, and her soul would die and she would become nothing more than a zombie. She had seen it happen to her mother.
She tripped and fell. As she tried to scramble to her feet, she saw him standing there. "You promised I'd be safe!" she cried.
"We don't need to keep our promises to such as you," replied Ambassador David Sheridan. "You failed us. They can take you now." He turned and walked away.
"No!" she cried. "You promised...."
They were there. Huge figures, massively taller than her. Their faces were twisted and monstrous, leering at her. They all held the syringes in their gloved hands. The badges on their chests seemed to glow at her.
"Let me," said another voice, and she cried out. It was her. Lyta Alexander. She had.... burned her mind. She had been there when Marcus had died. Marcus had loved her.
"Help me!" she cried, tears in her eyes. "You promised I'd be safe! Marcus, help me!"
"Marcus can't help you," said Lyta. "He's with me now. You killed him, remember."
"No! I didn't mean to."
"But you did. He doesn't love you any more. He's with me."
"Help me!" she cried again. "Someone help me!"
There was a brilliant flash of light, bright and dazzling. All the Psi Cops screamed and turned away. Lyta hissed, and fell. An instant later, they were all gone.
"Who are you?" said a voice she did not recognise. "What do you want?" She stiffened as she heard that question. "Why are you here? Why did you seek me out?"
"Who are you?" she asked softly.
"A friend," said the voice. It sounded.... old, and full of wisdom. It reminded her of her great-grandfather, who had died when she was a little girl. He had known everything, in her childish eyes. This voice sounded so much like him. "I heard your pain. You have been here before, haven't you? I.... remember."
"I'm Susan," she said softly.
"Yes," the voice said with satisfaction. "Of course you are. You are not of them, are you?"
"Them?"
"The Shadows."
"No. I don't think so. I used to be, but...."
"Ah. I see. Come and find me, Susan. Bring your friends. There are others here who have bad dreams. Dreams are the wishes our souls make when we are dead to the world. They are.... images of things long lost, and things never to be, and things we fear. I have seen all their dreams.
"Bring them to me. It will be good to have someone to speak to, after so long."
"Where are you?"
"I am here. You will know where to go."
"But...."
The dream ended, and Susan woke up. After shaking away the cold dust of her slumber, she suddenly realised she knew two things. First, that Lyta Alexander was coming to Z'ha'dum, and second, that she should go and talk to Delenn.
* * * * * * *
Mr. Trace was, generally speaking, a contented man. Life was good for him at the moment. He had a thriving business, very powerful friends, women throwing themselves at him, a file of all sorts of information that could prove valuable, and more money than most people could even dream of.
His earliest memory was a realisation, one day when he had been about five or so. He had looked around at the adults around him, the children who were his friends, the rundown buildings, the sheer lack of hope in everyone's eyes, and had completely understood just how stupid they all were. They lived in Sector 301, and it destroyed them. It had sucked away all their dreams, all their hopes, all their futile aspirations to be someone. They had come here, and they would never leave.
Trace had made himself two promises: first, that he would leave Sector 301, and second, that he would return, when he was powerful enough to own it.
He had been told it was possible to escape the Pit legitimately, but then he had been told it was possible to win the New Vegas lottery as well. He didn't know anyone who'd done either, and the odds of both were about the same. He had therefore set about escaping illegitimately.
Proxima was a long way from Earth, but some of the old creeds still lived here. The old gangs, the old cultures, the old ways. Mafia, Triad, Yakuza.... and others. The Thieves' Guild had a few representatives here, but Trace disliked all aliens intensely. No, better to stick with those he knew.
He had joined a small Mafia family at the age of thirteen, running errands, performing minor tasks, and proving surprisingly adept at mixing drinks. Under their tutelage he managed to get away from the Pit and up-sector. By the time the headman's only son was killed in a skirmish with some Yakuza, Trace had managed to get close to him, close enough to be named his heir.
The fall of Earth, the collapse of Orion and a bloody and brutal gang war that wiped out almost all the Yakuza and the Mafia, left him with almost everything he needed. He looked at Sector 301, he saw all the vulnerable, tired and scared people flocking there, and he smiled.
They were so stupid. None of them would ever escape, not one. He could capitalise on their lost dreams and broken hopes.
The first step of course was the legitimate return. So, he opened up a club. It was just close enough to the border with Sector 303 to be considered vaguely 'respectable'. All the money that had come into his hands with the collapse of the Mafia went on buying certain people. The entire Government was in chaos for years after Orion, and the security force in the Pit had been corrupt anyway. A few people had taken exception to Trace moving in on their territory, but examples had soon been made of them. They were all small fry anyway. Pathetically small.
It could all have come to nothing, however, without a very fortunate and surprising call that had come to him in his club one day.
His association with his mystery backer was based on a number of deals. The backer would provide him with enough money, influence and respectability to get whatever he wanted. He would provide the backer with as many telepaths as he could find, or at least news of their whereabouts. Trace would be protected from just about anyone who could threaten him, and he would make no effort to discover what happened to the telepaths once they left 301.
The arrangement had been working nicely for almost five years now. Trace had from time to time wondered just what his backer wanted with all those telepaths. He had some theories, but nothing he was sure of. To be honest, he did not really care. He knew who his backer was, and he was capable of throwing around enough money and power to buy out half of Proxima.
Trace was so close to getting what he had always wanted: respectability. He had been sounding people out about running for the Senate at the next election. There were rumours from Main Dome that the Wartime Emergency Provisions were to be relaxed, enough to start holding elections again. The local sector councils would be first. Within six months, he was betting. He could get a fair few people on there, he was sure. After that, the Senate election would follow. A year at most, he was certain.
And after that, well.... with his backer's assistance, would President Trace be too much to wish for?
A fine dream. All it took to rise in the world was perseverance, and a recognition of the sheer stupidity of others. Well, and luck, but someone or other - had it been Napoleon? - had said that everyone gets luck, both good and bad. It's the great people who know how to use it.
Trace liked the sound of that.
He reviewed the expected guests for tonight. An aide to Senator Macabee was rumoured to be bringing his new girlfriend, a couple of middle-placed execs at ISN and the first team of the Proxima Swashbucklers were meant to be along. Trace smiled, and made a mental note to let the bar staff know their drinks were on the house. He actually owned twelve percent of the Swashbucklers, and he was fairly certain of getting another ten percent or so within a few months. He'd have a majority shareholding before the end of the year.
Owner of a successful baseball team, huh? He chuckled, wondering what all his childhood friends would say if they could see him now. They'd probably curse at his luck, and say they could have made it out as well, but they'd been unlucky.
Some people never learned.
Trace headed out of his office and set off for the bar. You never knew when someone would pop in a little early, and he always liked mingling with the guests.
There were going to be two guests coming that night he had certainly not been expecting. But then, Dexter Smith and Talia Winters hadn't put their names down on the guest list.
* * * * * * *
Delenn had lost track of time. It did not seem to work quite the same way here. Of course, she remembered from her previous experiences as a prisoner that keeping track of time was difficult. It was easier to keep prisoners disoriented and uncertain.
They obviously still had not decided what to do with her. She did not really blame them. She wondered what was happening in the Alliance. They would not try to rescue her; she had made that completely clear in her message to Lethke. That had been when she thought she was going to die. How was she to know that Vejar would betray her like that?
Of course in his eyes it was not a betrayal. It was an important decision taking precedence over personal feelings. Delenn had done the opposite, putting her personal feelings before the good of the many.
No! The Alliance needed John more than it needed her. He was a warrior, a soldier, a leader of men. This was a time for warriors, not healers. Sinoval knew that. John knew that.
The Alliance could hold without her. She had made sure of that. Her message to Lethke had explained everything, all her plans for the furtherance of the Alliance, for the political and diplomatic aims she had been pursuing. She trusted him.
Her mind kept returning to the question she was afraid to ask. What would they do to her? She was thinking about Proxima, if the Shadows let Ambassador Sheridan have that much influence in the decision. A trial there for war crimes, a return to the prison from which John had freed her....
The door opened and she looked up, expecting Ambassador Sheridan, or her next meal. She was wrong on both counts.
"Delenn," said a familiar voice, one she had not heard for years. She rose to her feet, trembling slightly.
"We have a great deal to discuss," said Neroon.
* * * * * * *
At that same moment, above both their heads, the space around Z'ha'dum opened and the Babylon came into view.
"So that's Z'ha'dum," muttered Corwin to himself. "It doesn't look like much. There don't seem to be any Shadow vessels here."
"They're here," said the Captain. "They're here."
"So, what do we do now?"
The Captain was silent.