And in a room with the dead body of the former President, Mr. Welles opens his eyes, and realisation comes to him instantly.
There are things moving inside him that definitely should not be moving. He is not a doctor, but he was married to one for seven years, and he has always had a good memory. With enough time to sit and think he could probably diagnose what is broken. The force that threw him against the wall was awesome.
But he does not have time. Humanity does not have time.
All the comm systems in the defence grid operating room are dead of course, destroyed by Clark. Whether that was before or after he killed all the crew there, Welles does not know. He can see their bodies in his mind's eye, and he can also see a great many more.
He cannot walk. His left knee is twisted almost one hundred and eighty degrees, and the bone in his left shin is little more than shards. So he crawls, dragging himself along the smooth floor, leaving a long, sinuous trail of blood behind him, tacky and dark. His right arm is more or less all right, and his left is pressed in close against his chest, feeling his pulse desperately. It seems so fast. It feels so loud.
He tries to remember which way to take. There is a labyrinth of passages here, none of them known to the public. He thinks he knows the way, but there is so much he cannot recall now. When he tries, all he can see is Clark's body exploding, and the light throwing him against the wall.
Finally he falls outwards and finds himself in a room. He does not know where. There are people there, starting at the sight of him. They recognise him of course. He supposes he is underground somewhere, buried in the deep, dark heart of the Government building.
And he can see a commpanel.
He keeps his eyes open, and spits out a gobbet of blood.
There is no time.
'I think we have some unfinished business.'
The words came to former Earthforce Captain Dexter Smith from the middle of a haze of darkness and stars. He remembered hearing a voice talking to him, a softly accented alien voice, a woman who was telling him to kill her, as well as saying she forgave him.
Then there came pain, and an awakening. And then more pain, and another voice. One that spoke not just in his dreams, but in reality.
'Look at you now,' said Trace's voice. 'The big hero. Lying in the dirt and the mud. You came from here, didn't you? Sure you did, just like I did. We've both moved on since we emerged from the dirt, but here we are.... back here.'
There was a sharp kick to his side, and the sound of something cracking.
'But that's where the difference is. I'll be leaving here, moving up and out. I won't be in Sector Three–o–one forever, you know. I think my backers up–sector just had a little.... crisis of conscience, but ah, what the hell! Nothing lasts forever. I used my money wisely. I've got friends up there, more friends than you know. I know where too many bodies are buried, you see. I'm moving up in the world.'
'Alli.... ance.' The words would not come easily. Even thinking them gave Smith a headache. He needed time to think, time to catch his wind. He knew full well that Trace intended to kill him, and this time Talia was not going to materialise to help.
'Them? Heh, they aren't going to win. We've got those Shadows on our side, not to mention the defence grid and the new Earthforce ships. Nah, Proxima's safe enough. In any case, even if they do win, they aren't going to slag the planet. They're going to want their precious Delenn back, and that'll take time.... time I can use getting away from here. I've got friends all over this galaxy.'
'Del.... enn.'
'I didn't hear that. Were you saying something?' More pain.
'Killed her. You.... killed.... her.'
'No, not me. That was you, in case you've forgotten. Wonderful thing, i'n't it? Anyone can do anything at all, with just the right motivation. You killed her, not me. I won't shed any tears. What do I care about some alien bitch? But you did.'
Everything seemed to move around him, and Smith realised Trace had seized his collar and pulled him up. There was a hard slam against the wall, and his body shook.
'You killed her. You shot and killed an unarmed woman you cared about. See? You're just like all the rest of us. That means I've won. You're nothing now. Nothing but a dead man.' Smith's vision focussed on something mere inches from his eye. A PPG. 'Hey, maybe I'll go looking for that telepath of yours. My backers might not be after her kind any more, but I'm sure there's a use for her somewhere. I hear telepaths are great in the sack.'
'Kill.... you....'
'No. No, I don't think you will.' Trace smiled. 'Say goodbye to the....'
'Freeze!' barked a voice from nowhere. All Smith could see was the weapon just in front of his face. The voice echoed in his mind. Small wonder he couldn't recognise it. 'Security!'
'What the...?' barked Trace. He pulled back his weapon and stepped away from the wall. Smith slid down and felt the impact on the ground. 'Allan! For God's sake, it's me. What are you doing here? Thought you'd be hiding under your desk or something.' Trace was chuckling. 'Anyway, gimme a moment and then you and I can go somewhere safe and ride out this attack.'
'Drop your weapon.'
'What?'
'I said drop your weapon.'
'Allan.... that is you? Not some alien shapeshifter or something in disguise? It's me, remember, the guy paying you a fortune to keep off his back.'
'I can't let you kill someone in cold blood, Trace. You know that.'
'Then turn round. It'll only take a moment.'
'No. Drop your weapon and leave the area.'
'Oh, for the love of.... Why did you wait until now to develop a social conscience? You never had one before.'
'Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I just remembered what this uniform and this badge used to mean. Now drop the weapon.'
'Allan, believe it or not, you're something of a friend, so I'll say something to you that I wouldn't say to anyone else. This attack is obviously rattling you. So, head over to my club, get yourself a few drinks on the house. I'll join you shortly, we'll play some cards and everything'll be back to normal, right?'
'No. I've had enough of being a joke. Drop your weapon. I won't say that again.'
'Dammit, Allan. I tell you what. I'll make sure you get a real nice headstone, okay?'
There was a blur of movement, the sound of a PPG firing, and then of a body falling to the ground. Smith shook his head and opened his eyes. Zack Allan looked directly at him.
'Yeah?' he said. 'What? Have I got something on my nose?' He shook his head. 'Damn, I don't believe I just did that. Holy....'
'Why.... did.... you?'
'We got a report in about the Alliance attack. We were ordered here to keep things quiet, get people off the streets and so on. Yeah, so we didn't do a very good job, what the hell do you expect? Most of the other guys stayed at the base drinking themselves silly.'
'Why.... you.... here?'
'Ah, this is nuts. I had a dream, okay! A bloody dream! She was in it, and I don't know.... I just knew I had to come here and something.... good would happen. Like I bloody deserve anything good happening to me at the moment. Ah, come on, get up.'
Leaning on Allan, Smith managed to rise slowly. There was pain all over his body, his head was pounding and his vision was blurred, but he could stand, and he would not fall.
'Trace?' he asked.
'Dead. Drawing a weapon on a Security officer of Proxima Three. Damn, he shoulda listened to me. What about.... you know.... her?'
