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| Volume 4: A Future, Born in Pain | Part VII: That Which Man Hath Brought Together.... |
"IT is over."
"Yes. It is over."
"We have won."
"Yes. You have won."
* * * * * * *
The war for Proxima is over, has been over these past four weeks. The evil, corrupt Government of President Clark is finished, Clark himself is dead. His accomplices and associates are for the most part dealt with - dead, such as the feared Chief of Security, Mr. Welles, or imprisoned and awaiting trial, such as the leader of the Earthforce fleet, General Ryan.
This war is over, the greater war continues. The villains were defeated, the heroes were victorious.
Of course, that all depends on your point of view.
Captain Bethany Tikopai of the EAS De'Molay was tired, had been tired for the past four weeks. She did not want to be here. She wanted to be anywhere but here. She wanted a proper shower with proper water. She wanted a real cup of coffee. She wanted a decent night's sleep. And she wanted to be with her daughter.
She had always known a soldier's life would involve sacrifices, putting aside personal desires for the good of others, doing what was right for the many and not the few. She had always known she would have to fight for the good of her people.
She had just never thought she would have to fight her own people.
It was hot here, very hot. The floor, the walls, the ceiling, it all pulsed with heat. It was cooler now than it had been, but at one point the soles of her boots had been almost melting in the heat from the floor. Sweat covered her completely like a second skin, and her long dark hair, strands coming loose from her braid, was lumpy and sodden.
An absurd thought had come to her a few days ago, when she was lying in bed desperately trying to snatch even a few hours sleep, but unable to rest for the heat and the worry. She remembered years ago, when Julia had been ill with a fever. Her skin had felt so hot to the touch, almost burning. Was that what was happening to the De'Molay? Was the ship ill?
It was crazy, but no crazier than the events of the past four weeks. There had been something strange about this ship ever since it had been launched, and after it had been hit by that strange blast at Proxima nothing had gone right. It had taken a great deal of effort from Jaiena in Engineering even to get the De'Molay moving again. The constant running and fighting since then had only made things worse. Jaiena was probably the only person on the whole ship getting even less sleep than Bethany was.
Except after today it would all probably be academic. Captain Barns and his Dark Thunder had been run to ground and captured three days ago, and with him had gone any hope of an effective fight-back. It was over, and the three Dark Star ships surrounding the De'Molay proved it.
Still, while there was life, there was hope.
"How long for jump engines?" she asked, knowing it was pointless. The last time they had fled, the Dark Stars had been able to follow them into hyperspace and actually begin an engagement there. Only some incredibly stylish manoeuvring had got them away from that one. DeClercq's Saint-Germain could have run rings around them in hyperspace and had them chasing their own tails, but that was academic too. DeClercq was dead, his Saint-Germain a heap of fused metal.
"Too long," replied Paul Telluride, her first officer. He was cynical about their chances of survival, and why shouldn't he be?
The ship shook from another blast, and Bethany's hand rubbed against her armrest. She withdrew it sharply, wincing. It was unbelievably hot!
"They took out our dispersion fire," Paul said. "Dammit, why don't they just finish us?" Bethany said nothing. They wanted her alive. They wanted scapegoats. "Hah! We're getting a signal. It's from their lead ship."
"Put it on," she replied tiredly.
"But...."
"It doesn't matter what they want to say to us now. We're finished anyway. We might as well give them the satisfaction of saying it."
Paul muttered angrily as he put the message through. There should have been a technician to do that, but the De'Molay was operating under severely reduced capacity nowadays, less than a quarter of normal complement.
A face appeared on the screen, Communications being one of the few things Jaiena had been able to fix that hadn't immediately broken down again. The man seemed young, too young, and terribly earnest. Bethany thought she recognised him, but she couldn't be sure.
"Agamemnon to De'Molay. This is Captain David Corwin of Dark Star Three, the Agamemnon. Do you receive me, De'Molay?"
Corwin. That was it. Sheridan's right-hand man and former second. Well, if the Starkiller couldn't come himself, at least he had sent his personal hunting dog to do this for him.
"This is De'Molay. Captain Bethany Tikopai here. Well.... isn't this where you deliver the 'it's all over' speech?"
Corwin frowned. He actually looked genuinely troubled. "No," he said finally. "This is where I ask you to give yourselves up. We're fighting for the same things, really. It just doesn't.... look like it right now."
"Yes? We're not fighting for lies, or selling out our Government to aliens, to the Narns and the Minbari. We didn't betray humanity."
"And neither did we! Dammit, Captain, there are too many enemies out there for us to be fighting each other. My orders are to bring you back to Proxima, in however many pieces I feel necessary. I don't want to kill you. I've had enough of fighting my own people. I'm sick and tired of it." He sighed. "Whatever you might think, Captain, we really are both fighting for the same thing in the end."
"What's that?"
"A better world."
Bethany sat back. The heat didn't seem to bother her so much now. "I want a complete amnesty for all my crew," she said simply.
"Bethany!" cried Paul suddenly. "You can't...."
"Granted. I don't know how it'll be honoured, but I'll draw up the wording myself and ram it down people's throats until they listen."
Bethany nodded. "A better world, huh? Is this your idea of a better world?"
"Maybe not.... but I'm going to keep trying to create one. Proxima needs loyal soldiers, it needs people like you."
"I'm tired of this. Besides, I think you mean it. It's strange, but I really do. I'm even too tired to make threats about what will happen if you're lying."
"I'm not."
"I don't think you are. Fine.... it's over. You win. We surrender.
"We're going home."
* * * * * * *
"I will.... be going then."
There was an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the dark thoughts that echoed in John Sheridan's mind. Accusing thoughts, angry and bitter.... And some of them were directed at the woman in front of him.
"That's.... probably for the best," he said finally, hating himself for the words. It was true. It was for the best. Politically, militarily, personally....
Delenn had to return to Kazomi 7. The Alliance was holding together, just, but the recent tensions with the Narns, the revelation that the Centauri had allied themselves with the Shadows, the expense of the war.... they needed someone there, someone special. Not just a leader, a symbol.
That had to be Delenn. She was the only choice. She was the leader of the Alliance after all, and also the most obvious symbol of the alliance of races. No one else would do. Lethke and Vizhak were merely administrators, G'Kar represented only the Rangers and his own people, Vejar was hardly ever seen these days.... It had to be Delenn.
"You'll be.... safer there," Sheridan continued, the words sounding pathetic and forced even to him. "We're still catching some of the extremists, some of Clark's men.... people who blame you. There's also the possibility of a counterattack, of course."
All true, but none of these were the real reasons he wanted her on Kazomi 7 and not here. The real reasons he couldn't give voice to.... not to her.
He didn't want her near him. He didn't want to have to hold in his furious thoughts whenever he was around her. He didn't want to have to concentrate so hard not to say the words that would destroy her.
You killed my son!
He had tried telling himself a thousand times that was not true, and on some level he knew it. On that level he knew that he himself was to blame. If he hadn't left her on Z'ha'dum.... But if she hadn't gone there....
If, if, if.... so many ifs.... none of which resolved the main issue that his son was dead, and he had to blame someone. He didn't want it to be her, but if she stayed here, sooner or later it would be her.
"Then.... I will be leaving soon," she whispered.
She looked unhappy, not surprisingly. She also looked tired. She had told John what had happened to her on Proxima, the death - murder - of their son, her own death and strange resurrection. She had kept some things quiet, he knew, but he had not pressed her on them. Compared to what she had told him, any secrets she still kept would be inconsequential.
My son is dead.
Fool! Reach out to her! Tell her you love her!
In truth he was unhappy being on Proxima, and he couldn't wait to leave. He was a soldier and a leader of soldiers. He wanted to return to his war, where everything was so much simpler. The Shadows were evil. Everyone fighting them was therefore good.
But here.... here he was not a soldier, but an administrator. Somehow the task of running Proxima had fallen to him, or at least the duties of ensuring Proxima's defence, the location and arrest of the last few Clark loyalists or Shadow agents, the reorganisation of the army, setting up food supplies and renewing trade....
He hated it. He hated all of it. He wanted to be a soldier again, but until elections could be held, until actual parties could be organised.... then if not him, who?
Tell her you love her!
The voice would not be quiet, and he wanted to listen to it. He really did.... but he couldn't.
You killed my son!
Delenn bowed her head, and turned. She began to walk away.
Tell her, you fool.
He clenched his hand into a fist as he watched her walk away.
Tell her!
She left the room. She did not look back.
* * * * * * *
He was nobody, nothing, a faceless whisper in the night.
He had been nobody; a quiet, still, unnoticed figure who slipped between the cracks of the world, who lived his own private and lonely existence.
He had no name. He was no one. He was everyone.
They had come to him. They had come to him, and he was no longer alone. They had spoken to him, told him of great things. His dreams had been full of wonder; vast ships rising in the skies, a race of Gods fighting to bring forth advancement, the rush of chaos and the rise of the strong.
He had felt them die, and he had felt the burst of energy and light that had filled Proxima. He had nearly died himself. Perhaps he should have died.
But the light had suddenly faded, and he had been healed again. He had survived. He had been chosen. One of the few.
He now walked through this new world with care, in silence, even more so than before. He took pains to be nobody and he lived every day waiting for the night to come, when his Dark Masters would visit dreams upon him, when they would command him, and he would become somebody, somebody greater and nobler and more powerful then anyone could realise.
"What are my orders?" he would ask every time he slept.
"Wait," came the reply. "Wait."
* * * * * * *
"I'm sick o' waiting."
The figure on the floor whimpered and tried to say something; excuses, reasons, justifications, anything. The man was not listening.
"I don't think I'm being that unreasonable, am I? I know things mighta.... changed here a little, what with Mr. Trace not being around an' all.... but that don't mean we gotta forget the rules of three-o-one, does it?
"You know what the rules are, sure ya do. Pay up nice and easy.... and we'll keep you safe.... make sure no.... accidents happen. You get me, don't you?
"I've been reasonable with you. I've given you plenty of time to get the money together. I even let you skip a month, after that story you gave. I know things are a bit tight right now.... but, well.... we've gotta keep order around here, especially with Mr. Trace gone, and that means obeying the rules. If I let you off, then I've gotta let everyone else off, and then where will we be?"
The man flexed the long metal rod in his hands. There were certainly other implements he could have used, devices much more modern and up-to-date, but Trace had been a traditionalist, and Roberts thought it was only right.
Anyway, he didn't want to kill the man on the floor, just.... let him know who was still in charge around here.
"Remember.... I gave you every chance. You can't say I'm being unreasonable."
"Actually," said a new voice, "I think we can."
A door opened and a newcomer walked in. He was a tall man, projecting an instant force of will. Roberts narrowed his eyes. He knew who this was. Another man came in behind him. Roberts knew who that was too.
"Get outta here, Smith. This ain't none of your business."
"Everything in Sector Three-o-one is my business these days, Roberts. Thanks for showing yourself at last.... we had quite a bit of trouble tracking you down."
"Oh for.... Allan, sort him out for me, will you?"
"I can't do that," said Sector 301's Security Chief firmly.
"Allan.... whatever Mr. Trace was paying you, I'll add ten.... twenty percent. Mr. Trace always said what a good working relationship you two had. I'd like to see that continuing, now that I'm carrying on the business."
"The 'business'," Allan said firmly. "By that you mean extortion, assault, blackmail, smuggling.... because I know you haven't got his nightclub."
"When did you get any guts, Allan? Crawl back to your office, why don't you?"
"I can't do that either. The law in three-o-one isn't for sale any more. Now we can do this the hard way, or.... Naw, why confuse things? Let's do this the hard way."
It only took a few minutes after that for Roberts to be taken away and Smith to help up the slightly bruised and quite scared businessman and get back to work.
Sector 301 had been called the Pit, and for years that was what it had been, a sink for the lost, the pathetic, the worthless, the garbage.... and the corrupt. The Security force here had been filled with cynics and criminals, paid off by the big gangs. The people had lived in a state of hopelessness and apathy, refusing to imagine there was any way out.
Not any more.
A miracle had happened here. One had died, and been reborn. Her words had touched the hearts of all those who had heard them, and they had been heard, and understood, and heeded, and acted upon. A shrine had grown up, a place of tranquillity, of memory, of hope - but the real memorial was Sector 301 itself.
The place was becoming ordered. People were helping each other. The Security forces were now doing what they were supposed to be doing.
The place was changing.
"So," said Zack Allan to Dexter Smith, as they were relaxing with a drink in Bo's bar, "just how did you find out what Roberts was up to?"
"A little source of information," Smith said. His tone of voice was not exactly joyous. "Someone up sector seems to be watching me."
"Ah.... this be the same person that's been okaying funds and assistance, that helped you buy Trace's nightclub?"
"I bought the nightclub myself. I had quite a bit of money, and the war heroes' pension went up a lot after we started winning occasionally. But as for the rest of it.... yeah. We've been getting a lot of help."
"So who is this mysterious benefactor? Anyone I know?"
"Someone it might be dangerous for you to know. I think you'd be better off not investigating this one, Zack. I just have this.... feeling."
"Fair enough." Zack shrugged and went back to his drink. An uneasy silence fell over the two. They had known each other for a while, and been adversaries most of that time, ever since Smith had dismissed Allan from the post of Security Chief on the Babylon. Zack had fallen after that, and ended up here.
But the two had shared something very special.... they had witnessed the Sector 301 miracle, the rebirth of the Blessed Delenn. Zack had done quite a bit of thinking, and had managed to regain some measure of self-respect and conviction.
The two were not quite friends, but they were certainly not enemies, and they were definitely working towards the same goal: a future for the 'Pit'.
And someone else was working towards that goal as well, someone Smith wasn't entirely sure he trusted, not least because Mr. Edgars was supposed to be dead. He remembered some of the things Talia had told him before she left, some of the things Edgars was into. He also remembered the offer Edgars had made him.
If William Edgars was helping out in Sector 301, he very definitely had an ulterior motive for doing so, but at the moment they were hardly in a position to turn away any help.
No matter where it came from.
Smith cast his mind back a few months as he thought about one of the newest 'assistants' in Sector 301's urban renewal.
Word had reached him, through Bo of course, that someone was hiding in 301, someone who very much wanted to remain hidden, but who also wanted to do something. Someone who might be able to help. Smith had been intrigued, and had agreed to a midnight meeting. He was led off in secret, trying to hide the fact that he knew exactly where they were going. He had grown up in the Pit, and knew its every hiding place off by heart.
He was surprised to find Julia Tikopai waiting for him.
The sixteen-year-old daughter of one of the missing renegade Earthforce captains, Julia was very high on the new administration's 'Most Wanted' list, not for anything she'd done as such, but because she would be a vital tool in getting her mother to surrender and come home, bringing her ship with her.
"You know who I am?" was the first thing she had said, and he had been surprised by the composure in her voice.
"I know your mother," he said, and he did.... in a way. Experienced Earthforce officers had been in very short supply for quite a while, and the few captains tended to hang around together. Smith and Bethany Tikopai had only really talked on a few occasions.
"Half the planet's looking for you."
"Which is why I came here. I want to make a deal."
"Oh yes?"
"You help me stay hidden. I'll help you do.... whatever it is you're doing here."
He had smiled. "Done."
And he hadn't regretted it. Julia had taken her place as a member of the irregular Security force in 301, those who worked without badge or pay, but with a keen conviction that some things were right and that what was wrong would no longer be tolerated. She had displayed a keen sense of tactics and leadership far beyond her years. It was thanks to people like her that the bad seeds of Sector 301 were now being cleaned out, a task now nearly completed with the arrest of Trace's last remaining right-hand man, Roberts.
"So, what now?" Zack asked.
"What do you mean?"
"The rest of the planet might have forgotten about us for a while, but they're beginning to open their eyes and remember we're here. We're going to have to make this little operation of ours totally legitimate, and make sure the rest of Proxima doesn't start dumping all their crap here again."
"Yes, I've been.... thinking about that. Someone's going to have to go and see Sheridan."
"Sheridan?"
"He's running the place now. I know.... I know neither of us has exactly got on well with him, but I still believe he's a good man. He should listen to us."
"Well, then.... when are you going to go?"
"Me?"
"You got anyone else in mind?"
"No, you're right. I've been hoping to put this off as long as possible, but we're going to have to make ourselves known again. There are just a lot of things we'll have to keep quiet about.... for the moment, such as our dark-haired Security Irregular for a start."
"Here's a thought," said Zack brightly, "why don't you put your name down for the new Senate?"
"Me? You've got to be kidding."
"No, we're going to need a few people there, and you could do some good for three-o-one. Quite a bit of good."
"We don't know how much power the new Senate is going to have. There's all sorts of constitutional issues that are going to have be worked out....
"But still.... you know, that might not be such a bad idea."
"I do have my moments."
* * * * * * *
"Report."
"The problem has been dealt with. Security forces raided the base early this morning. The conspirators were captured and arrested. Three were killed. Their weapons were seized, and those incorporating Shadow technology destroyed."
"All of them?"
"No. Two of the weapons.... went missing. An agent of mine managed to arrange for them to be delivered to our storehouse."
"Excellent. Our scientists will analyse them in detail."
"And what will we do with them?"
"Keep them safe. For.... contingencies. You never know when such things will come in useful. Are there any other little cabals of Clark's supporters still active?"
"We do not think so. There might well be individuals here and there still in hiding, but all the large-scale groupings have now been dealt with. The new order is quite secure."
"Good. We will begin the process of elections as soon as practicable. The sooner a proper democratic Government is in place, the better. General Sheridan will then return to his war, and we will be able to return to hiding. We have been too.... visible recently. It is time to disappear for a while."
"And do what?"
"Wait."
* * * * * * *
Look at Proxima 3. Time passes as the universe turns.
General John Sheridan sits in his high office, reading reports, sending people to die in the front lines against the Shadows, pushing the Enemy further and further back. He gives an order for David Corwin to move to Greater Krindar. A shipyard is being prepared there, a place for Dark Star ships to be crewed and held, a launching pad for the next stage of the war. He misses having David around, but in some ways he is glad. Now he can work alone, truly alone.
General Edward Ryan learns he will not be charged for any of his actions under Clark's régime. He is not discharged from Earthforce, and is assigned to rebuilding. Proxima will be defended by the Dark Star fleet for the foreseeable future, but a time will come when humanity will have to defend itself. Humanity will also have to commit their own ships to the Alliance's war with the Shadows. Captains Bethany Tikopai and Jerry Barns are retained in Earthforce, but the De'Molay and the Dark Thunder are decommissioned and destroyed.
Some of the secret members of Clark's government are found and arrested. They are faceless and nameless, people who worked behind the scenes. Some of them have been plotting revenge against the new administration, but they are stopped, in more than one instance due to a strange intervention by a conspiracy no one believed existed. Evidence and testimony are gathered for public trials.
Slowly a new administration is formed. Political parties appear, created in the pattern of those that existed before the Minbari War. Martial law is rescinded on the captured colonies and their representatives come to Proxima, forming the beginnings of a new Senate. One of the first motions to be discussed when the new Senate is finalised will be humanity's admission to the United Alliance. It has been made very clear that this will happen, and if there is any undue obstruction the Senate will discover its true place in the new order.
Sector 301 continues to operate virtually outside the rest of Proxima. Its people are used to being forgotten and abandoned. Zack Allan has a brief meeting with the new Chief of Security, a man named John Clemens. Dexter Smith tries to make appointments with some of the new Senators, but is frequently rebuffed. Finally, he makes an appointment with William Edgars.
The Blessed Delenn is gone, returned to Kazomi 7. There are whispers that she is still on Proxima however, reports that she has been sighted. Her legend spreads slowly but surely beyond Sector 301, and visitors come to her shrine, many from off-world.
Julia Tikopai remains anonymous in Sector 301. She has come to enjoy her new place and her new duties. She does send a message to her mother, as soon as she is satisfied her mother is safe.
The Round Table watches and waits, content now to sit back and let affairs take their course. Occasionally some slight manoeuvring is necessary, the calling in of a favour, a quick effort to protect one of their own or a useful ally. However, for the most part their work is done.
The network was re-established soon after the battle. Byron is still screaming, as are the other telepaths linked into the network around Proxima. The severity of its initial psi-bursts has dampened, and it is now not much more than a highly sophisticated defence grid, albeit one that most of Proxima knows nothing about. If it is needed again then it will be used, but for now it is a weapon kept safely in the back pocket.
Mr. Edgars has slowed down his business of shipping telepaths to the Vorlons. The collapse of Trace's operations in Sector 301 has more or less closed off that market. His masters do not complain. He has done very well indeed by them.
Mr. Morden watches, with particular attention paid to events on Centauri Prime. Finally, a month or so after the battle, he leaves, knowing the time is right to return there.
A nameless man waits dreaming....
* * * * * * *
William Edgars was, to the few people who knew him, an enigma. Head of one of the largest MegaCorps to survive the war, he was one of the richest men in what was left of the Earth Alliance. He was certainly influential and would, with a few of his companions, have been able to buy Presidents. Why, therefore, he had chosen to disseminate false information about his death and run his companies from hiding was something of a mystery.
Dexter Smith knew a few things, but certainly not enough. He did not know why Edgars was helping him, what Edgars hoped to gain from doing so.... or just what involvement Edgars had with the missing telepaths Talia had been investigating. He was not entirely sure just which side Edgars was on.
However, he was much too valuable a potential ally to waste.
"Thank you for coming," Edgars said, gesturing to Smith to sit down. "I realise things have been.... busy for you. How are matters in Sector Three-o-one at the moment?"
"Improving," Smith said, taking the seat. "We're slowly getting our industry up and running again. There are a few problems with the new administration, of course, but...."
"But?"
"But we're getting past them."
"Splendid. I'm very glad to hear matters are progressing. Tell me, have you heard from Miss Winters recently?"
Smith stiffened. Edgars had some strange fascination with telepaths, and Talia had experienced something very unusual and very painful here, something she had not fully explained to him. Smith himself possessed some latent telepath genes, and that made him valuable, both to Talia and to Edgars.
"No," he said, finally. "Not for some time." Several months in fact. She had accomplished her mission in Proxima - finding out just what IPX were doing to telepaths. In addition to whatever she had witnessed during her imprisonment, Mr. Welles had given her his own file on IPX and their activities. With this information, she had left.
"Ah, a shame. I would very much like to.... discuss a few matters with her." He sighed. "Yes, a pity, that."
An uncomfortable silence fell over the pair. Smith fidgeted awkwardly in his chair, looking at Edgars, and also thinking about Talia. In some way he could not properly articulate, he missed her, and very much wanted to talk to her again.
Finally, he sat forward. "Mr. Edgars.... we're both very busy, so if you'll forgive me being a little blunt.... why exactly did you invite me here?"
"Would you believe a friendly chat? No.... you probably wouldn't. I've been.... taking a great deal of interest in your activities in Sector Three-o-one. Following your career, one might say. You've done remarkably, better than anyone might have expected."
"Yeah, well.... I can't take all the credit for that. You've helped out a bit.... and then there's Delenn...." Smith shook his head. "Is there any chance of getting to the point sometime soon?"
"Impatience.... a quality of the young. At my age, Mr. Smith, you realise the full value of time.... and of waiting. As I said, I've been observing events in Sector Three-o-one, and helping out with some.... minor matters as best as I can. I've become aware of some very interesting things, in particular that you've been sheltering young Miss Tikopai. There are quite a few members of the new administration who might want to talk to her."
"What would be the point? Her mother's surrendered. She wasn't even charged with anything."
"True. However.... if Miss Tikopai were to be.... closely observed, she might be a handy disincentive to her mother, should she have any ideas about objecting to the new order." Edgars waved his hand. "Anyway, that does not matter to me. Any hint of a military coup and I will be aware of it and.... a certain word in the right ear and things would come to a drastic halt. General Sheridan is not of course aware of this, and so one can forgive his caution. I speak of Miss Tikopai only as an example of my knowledge of your affairs."
"I'm fully aware of how much you know, Mr. Edgars."
"I doubt that, Mr. Smith. Anyway, the point.... As you know, the new Senate is forming.... slowly. Colonial Governors, civil servants and so forth. Largely uninspiring. It could use a.... renowned public figure.... such as yourself."
"You aren't the first person to tell me I should run for the Senate. I'm busy where I am."
"Ah.... but there is only so much you can do where you are now. You don't even have any official title. In the Senate, you would have influence.... power.... and who knows? Within a few years you could even be President."
Smith couldn't resist a laugh. "President Smith? How about Mr. Smith goes to Proxima? I'm sorry.... I don't want to be President."
"Making you the perfect choice. But that is for the future. The Senate.... Proxima, humanity even.... need people like you. You can do so much more to help your Sector Three-o-one there than you can now."
"And what do you get out of this?"
"Ah, yes.... Mr. Smith.... I have dedicated my life to the human race, to the protection and preservation of those of us not.... gifted with telepathic powers. It is often.... useful to have highly placed allies who agree with me. We both want what is best for Proxima and for humanity, and I would rather have a man who believes in the same things as I do in the Senate than a petty time-server only interested in feathering his own nest."
"I'm a telepath, remember. What makes you think I'd vote the way you want?"
"You cannot read minds, Mr. Smith. A slender distinction.... but a vital one. In any event, I will not demand you try to enforce an immediate cull. But I know you.... share some of my concerns, and leaving aside the telepath issue, I know you want what is best for humanity. I know I can rely on you to take action in the Senate, to do what you think is right."
Smith sat back. "I won't say I haven't been thinking about this, but.... I don't want power."
"As I said.... that makes you the perfect person to have it. There is no need for a decision immediately. Think about what I have said. If you decide you do want to put yourself in contention, let me know. I will do the rest.
"Oh, and Senator Smith might have more luck arranging an appointment with General Sheridan than plain private citizen Smith."
Smith stood up. "I won't ask how you knew about that."
"That, Mr. Smith, would be very wise."
* * * * * * *
"Are you there? Can you hear me, Carolyn?"
There was no reply. That did not surprise him. Carolyn never spoke to him when he was awake - only in his dreams, and then he rarely remembered their conversations. But he always awoke with the lingering echo of her voice and her screams in his mind.
Even now, after all this time adjusting to the idea, David Corwin could not believe what the Vorlons had done. Imprisoning telepaths within ships like this, leaving them conscious but paralysed, their minds linked in an endless network of pain. Monstrous was not the word to describe it.
But what could he do? The Vorlons were, for now at least, allies against the Shadows. Humanity certainly didn't have the technology to undo what the Vorlons had done in crafting the 'nodes' on the network that were the Dark Star ships.
He had gone wandering in the deeper reaches of the ship, looking for the chamber in which Carolyn would be imprisoned, despite Lyta's warning against such a move. He had had no success, just a screaming headache that had left him bedridden for days.
And so he had thrown himself into his duties. Much against his will, he had been appointed administrator of the shipyards here at Greater Krindar, co-ordinating the Alliance ships that beached here, arranging raiding parties into Shadow controlled territories. It was a level of responsibility he had not wanted and never expected. It was a strange feeling to be talking with generals such as Kulomani and Daro. To his discomfort they spoke with him as an equal, the inevitable result of shared experiences at the Battle of Proxima.
He had never wanted this. Never. At the back of his mind a million thoughts swirled, each one kept in careful check. He thought of his friend, General Sheridan, the man who had become a near stranger over the past year. He thought of Carolyn, trapped and paralysed somewhere in the heart of the ship in which he spent twenty-four hours a day.
He was also thinking about Lyta, thinking about her far too much.
He had never asked for this.
Still, the war was going well. The Dark Star patrols were beating back occasional Shadow raiding parties, liberating systems, destroying bases and outposts. The Shadows were pulling back, rarely risking an outright engagement. Corwin was beginning to realise that in a war of attrition, the Shadows would lose, and that they knew this.
That was not a welcoming thought. They were readying themselves, they were planning something. Besides, the Alliance might be able to win a war of attrition, but how many would they lose in doing so?
Still, time passed. Matters proceeded more or less according to plan. The war was slowly but surely being won.
The Shadows were content to wait.
* * * * * * *
Now. Awake.
The nameless man stirred. What is required of me?
He was told. Do not fail us.
I will not fail.
Know what is to happen. Know what your sacrifice will bring.
Images filled his mind. There was a glory, a great and powerful glory. Yes!
I am ready. I will not fail.
* * * * * * *
Like all the races known as the First Ones, the Shadows knew the value of patience. With countless millennia of existence behind them, with a dedicated purpose of social and galactic engineering, they had learned long ago to wait.
But they had also learned when to wait, and when to act.
There were some on Z'ha'dum who were coming to recognise that the war was over, that their race was finished. Factions were forming, at least, factions as the mortal mind would understand their society. Some advocated a token defeat and a slip into obscurity, waiting for the time to re-emerge. Others claimed that would not work, not again. What would they lose this time? Another thousand years? More?
Then there were those who held that it was all over, not just this war, but for all wars. They should leave this galaxy and join their brothers beyond the Rim, abandoning their ungrateful children to the Vorlons.
But first there would be an opportunity for revenge, to even the score.... and perhaps one last chance at victory. It would be a risk, but win or lose, there would be chaos, and that would be a victory of a sort.
* * * * * * *
There was a dull tapping in his mind, a noise it took him a while to realise was the sound of his blood hitting the floor.
It was strange. He had expected pain. It certainly should hurt, from the size of the knife wound in his stomach, but.... somehow, it didn't. There was no feeling at all, nothing except a final peace.
It was over. At last, it was over.
General Edward Ryan blinked as he tried to look up at his murderer. The man was writing something on the wall, writing in Ryan's own blood. The lines formed letters, which formed words, but Ryan could not make sense of them. They all.... blurred into one another.
Words came to him, rising over the sound of his blood dripping to the floor.
Some of us are planning an escape, General. We believe there is a place we can hide, build up slowly again. There are rumours Captain Smith and the Marten survived Beta Durani and are hiding out somewhere. If we can find them....
Why are you telling me this?
Ryan blinked as a red gauze filtered across his vision. Where were those words coming from? They seemed to make sense.
Come with us, General. They'll flock to you. It'll take time, yes.... but we're used to that, aren't we?
No, Captain. No.
Why not? How is this different from fighting the Minbari, General? We need you.
The war is over now.
No. The war will never be over. Sheridan has betrayed us.... handed us over to aliens. He led a war against his own people, General. Surely you can see that!
That is treason you speak, soldier.
It's the truth I speak!
Yes. Now he remembered. An argument with Captain Barns.... when? A few weeks ago, perhaps less. The echoes of the anger and the sorrow seemed etched into the walls.
Words on the wall. They were starting to become clear now. He could almost see them. The man was just finishing.
Listen to me, Captain. The war is over. We have a chance to build a new Proxima here.... finally to be rid of everything that's hit us for all these years. Please try to understand that.
General Hague would have understood.
General Hague is dead! And if you try to leave this planet, Captain, you will be arrested and court-martialled. Surely you see that!
I see nothing, General. Not a single thing.
Ryan blinked, wondering why he wasn't dead yet. Almost three years ago, General Hague had blown his brains out with a PPG, unable to accept the cost of the war. Ryan would have done the same, had he but the courage.
But he had never had the courage. Not to end his life, not to continue fighting, not to do anything but meekly accept what had been thrown at him. He should have agreed with Barns, he should have gone with him. It was the right thing to do, but....
But he had been too afraid. All his adult life he had seen his people engaged in one terrible war after another. Surely this new life, this new peace, whatever it cost, was better than another sixteen years of war.
The man turned from the wall, his work done. Ryan blinked and looked up at it. It was a message, as he had expected.
Proxima Will Be Free.
General Edward Ryan sighed, closed his eyes, and died.
* * * * * * *
Some stories have not been told yet.
The day Ryan died, Captain David Corwin was on a routine patrol around the Greater Krindar shipyards, supervising the repairs and defences of the Dark Star fleet. There had been a particularly bloody battle at Lukantha. The Shadows had eventually been driven back, but at great cost. Five Dark Stars had been destroyed, and another seven damaged. They were in for repairs.
Five telepaths, sealed forever in space, in an eternity of agony nothing could end, linked forever to their accursed network.
And another seven alive, but in pain. Carolyn magnified their pain through to him. Phantom pain. He had awoken in the middle of the night, reaching frantically for his left arm, convinced it had been blown away.
How many more? How many more lives were the Vorlons going to throw away in this vendetta of theirs? How many more lives was he going to let them throw away before he did something, anything?
Wait, Lyta had said. Wait. Be patient. The time will come.
When?
Something hummed in the back of his mind and he sat upright in his chair, realising it was Carolyn. That had been happening a lot the longer he spent on this ship. Some of the other captains were reporting similar symptoms, an almost symbiotic link with the ship, as if it were becoming a part of them.
They did not know about the telepaths, of course. Corwin shuddered to think of the implications.
Still, he knew better than to ignore such a warning.
"Scan for anything unusual," he said, cautiously. "Anything...." He wasn't sure, but Carolyn could sense something.
Wait.... telepathic powers were heightened in hyperspace, weren't they? Wasn't that the whole point of this network, how it operated? And the Shadows could move through hyperspace effortlessly. They even lived there to some extent.
"Scan into hyperspace," he said. The Dark Stars could do that. The Vorlons were every bit as adept at travelling through hyperspace as the Shadows.
"Captain," barked out the technician. "Jump gates."
"Gates?" The Shadows didn't use jump gates. They just slipped between dimensions as easily as walking from one room to another. "Who?"
Ships appeared, and immediately began to fire.
"That's insane," whispered Corwin, knowing he should give orders, but unable to assimilate the absurdity of this. This did not make sense. Even considering everything that had happened recently, this did not make any sense.
"Why would the Minbari attack us?"
* * * * * * *
John Clemens was a man who did not make friends easily. He was, however, very skilled at what he did, and what he did was catch people. He was an investigator, a detective, a cold, harsh man who lived only to regulate and control society.
For years he had been languishing in a thankless, forsaken post. A prison Governor in the far northern Dome, a maximum security area where aliens were kept, as well as the worst human criminals. His skills should have placed him far higher, but he did not rage at his lack of recognition, content to wait. In some strange way he suspected the truth.
He had met Mr. Welles on only a few occasions, but Welles had been his superior for years. Somewhere, in the icy caverns of his mind, Clemens recognised that Welles respected him and wanted him somewhere safe. He wanted a skilled man to take over should anything.... happen. A man untouched and untainted by political rivalries.
A man who would do his job and no more.
"Well, Mr. Clemens?" said the man beside him. "What precautions have you taken?"
"We've sealed all the spaceports, of course," Clemens said in his typically clipped manner. He had very little patience, but was singularly adept at hiding this from others. "This is being treated as a Code Perfect crime - one of maximum importance."
"A holdover from the Wartime Emergency Provisions."
"One that has never been repealed. General Ryan held a position expressly mentioned in the relevant sections and any crime against him should be treated as a Code Perfect."
"That's a value judgement. Do you really think you have that authority?"
"I am Chief of Security for the whole of this planet. That gives me the authority to invoke Code Perfect. In this case, I am doing so. I do not need your authorisation."
The man nodded. "Continue."
"The Domes are being closed off, the transport tunnels shut down. A curfew is being imposed. My officers have licence to enter and search any building they see fit. Due to a shortage of available officers, however, I am exercising discretion in the use of that power. Based on the approximate time of the murder, the perpetrator would probably not have got further than ten or twelve sectors in any direction, so we are working on identifying potential hiding places. The recent devastation has of course increased their number considerably. I have also ordered a planet-wide cordon of ships in case a shuttle does manage to escape."
"You are taking up a great deal of resources on this. Not to mention time. Those ships are necessary for the continuation of the war, and the Security officers will be needed for other duties."
"Everything I have done is within the remit of my position. If of course you want the murderer to escape, then you are free to remove me and appoint a replacement. Until you do that, you have no power to object as long as I stay within the provisions of my office and within the powers granted me by the Wartime Emergency Provisions."
"Those Provisions are being repealed. Every last one of them."
"That is for the Senate to consider. When it is fully convened, of course. Now, unless there are any more questions...."
"Yes, actually. There are. Have you any thoughts on how the murderer managed to get inside General Ryan's rooms, and out again, without your officers noticing?"
"A pass card was used, permitting authorised access to certain areas, including the General's rooms. It is possible that the murderer was a civil servant or ministerial aide, who had appropriate authorisation. It is also possible he or she stole the card or bought it on the black market. My officers are severely under strength, as you well know."
"Yes, I do, and that's something I'm working on rectifying, but the last sixteen years have hit us all quite hard. How long do you think it will take you to find the murderer?"
"As long as it takes."
"I see.... Act quickly. There is a war on."
"No. For us, the war is very much over." The other man turned to leave, and Clemens continued reviewing the murder scene, taking in details, information, evidence, when a thought occurred to him. "Oh, by the way, General Sheridan....
"I just thought you would like to know. Considering the position you now hold and the wording of the Provisions, your murder would also qualify for a Code Perfect investigation. Is that not a welcoming thought?"
"No," Sheridan said dryly. "Not really."
* * * * * * *
Some things were oddly familiar, even welcoming in a strange way.
Corwin had been fighting the Minbari almost all of his adult life. He had worked together with his Captain, the legendary Starkiller, devising tactics and battle plans specifically geared to Minbari ways of fighting. The vast majority of that war had been fought from a position of extreme weakness, where every tiny advantage was essential, no strategy too underhand, no possibility left unchecked.
Now Corwin was not in a damaged, half-obsolete, vastly inferior human ship. He was in one of the most advanced and powerful ships of its class anywhere in the galaxy. He was not alone, but surrounded by allies. He could target the Minbari ships easily, his Dark Star was faster and more manoeuvrable, and his forces outnumbered the enemy.
Admittedly, the telepath network was of little to no use in actual combat against non-Shadow-based ships, but that was another plus as far as he was concerned.
But the big question, the one he still could not answer.
Why?
"Defensive positions," he ordered hurriedly. "Defend the shipyards." The Minbari had an advantage of time, a small one, but potentially enough. Corwin saw the Dark Stars adopting a hasty defensive position. Some damage had already been done. "Put out a signal to the Minbari. Make damned sure they can hear it."
Still the Minbari came forward, all weapons blasting. Corwin shook his head, unwilling to accept any of this. It looked like a deliberate suicide mission, a kamikaze attack. But why, in God's name?
"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 régime, 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 régime, 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."