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

'We both know it is more than that.'

'Well, what are you going to do now?'

'The Emperor demanded that I uncover the truth of this. Now I have done so, I should report to him. However.... you are his friend, and have been a longtime servant of the Republic. Also, I know you did not do this for personal gain, for power or pride. Your motives were altruistic I am sure, but as you see, the consequences of your deeds are more far–reaching than we could have envisaged.

'The Emperor must know of this, but who will tell him? I, or you?'

'You spoke to my captains, you said?'

'Yes. I think most of them suspected, but none said as much aloud. You have a most loyal....'

'Did you look into their eyes?'

'Their eyes?'

'I know the names of every crew member on every ship in my command. I try to talk to as many of them as possible whenever we go into battle. I look into their eyes when I do so, and in each and every one I see fear. And when the battle is over, I talk to them again, and look into their eyes once more, and I see joy, relief.... triumph.

'All of those men have things to live for. They have wives, lovers, children, parents, hopes, aspirations, dreams. We could have fought the Narns alone.... and maybe they would have won, and maybe we would have won, but either way, so many of those soldiers, those hopes, those aspirations, those dreams.... they would all be floating dead in space, lifeless husks.

'But because of my actions, they are alive. There are people here, on this world, who are still alive, who still have their loved ones.

'So go back and talk to my captains, Durano. And talk to their crew and their families. Look into all those eyes....

'And then come back and dare to tell me that what I did was wrong!'

Durano took a momentary step back, but then he recovered, his mask slipping only for an instant. 'You have forgotten something,' he said harshly. 'It is not my place to say what is right and what is wrong. I serve the Emperor, and I do as he bids.'

'Ah.... well, there is the difference between us. You serve the Emperor. I serve the Republic.'

'I see. I will not go to him directly. I leave the matter in your hands, Lord–General. You may tell him yourself, or you may, if you wish, choose another route. The same route taken by Lord Valo.'

Durano moved forward, his eyes directly meeting Marrago's. He brushed past the Lord–General and went to the door. Then he turned, and Marrago turned to meet him.

'You were wrong. I did look into all their eyes, and I saw all the things you said. But I also look into the eyes of everyone I meet, including those here, those not soldiers.

'And I saw almost three billion dead bodies if the Alliance turns against us and joins the Narns.

'Think about that, Lord–General.... but do not take too long.'

* * *

It was unprecedented, unheard of. Never before in the long history of the Vorlon race had a part of their network broken away and become severed. It was fortunate perhaps that the Shadow ships had fled Proxima, abandoning their allies, and the few that remained were being chased down and attacked by a handful of the Dark Star fleet.

As it was, the Vorlons noticed this, and were curious. And they were angry.

The Dark Stars were little more than mobile nodes of the network, controlled by it, but also controlling the minds and powers of the telepaths sealed within them. Somehow, through unknown means, the telepath bound within the Dark Star 3 had broken free of the network, and the shock of that had caused the transient severing of the links with the nearest permanent node, Byron. Thus the links to the remainder of the Dark Star fleet were severed. All this was only temporary, and as the battle had already been won, it would not be fatal.

It was however a great inconvenience. It was unlikely the planned and long–awaited punishment of Proxima would now go ahead. It was also possible, though unlikely, that their part in all this would be detected. Clark was dead, Ambassador Sheridan missing and Welles could be dealt with. Clark had turned the defence grid inwards, the final act of a cowardly loser, preferring death to defeat. It was doubtful if the true architects would be discovered.

However, it was still an inconvenience. It would take some time for the Vorlons to trace the exact cause of the disruption to the network, the exact point at which it originated.

When they did, their anger would be manifest, although perhaps not immediately.

Unlike wizards or technomages, Vorlons are seldom quick to anger, but like both they are subtle, and once angered the results are terrible.

* * *

Freed from the strange impediment preventing their actions, the Dark Star ships now launched themselves on the defence grid. Captain Corwin in particular was filled with both a great fury and a determination to triumph here. He had been to Proxima, spent many years there. It was not his home, but it was a place he knew. He would not let it be destroyed.

The others, the aliens, acted perhaps a little more slowly. Proxima was their enemies' world. What matter if one of their enemies chose to exact revenge on his own people? However, there were some who still remembered the horror that had engulfed Kazomi 7, and had resolved not to let the same thing happen to another world, even to an enemy.

But there were many satellites, and the Dark Star ships were limited.

One satellite, far away from the others, far away from the ships, prepared to fire. It was nothing but a soulless piece of machinery. It did not care that it had been designed to protect those same people it would now be destroying. It had no heart, no susceptibility to pleas for mercy, to compassion, to forgiveness.

A minute before it was ready Corwin saw it, and made a desperate effort to get within range, knowing he could not. The Agamemnon was too far away. It had all been for nothing.

But then a ship came into view.

* * *

DeClercq had been following the situation as much as he could with the limited sensors available on the Saint–Germain. Something unusual had happened only a few minutes earlier, and a hurried consultation with Engineering had revealed that whatever had been paralysing the ship was now gone. It would, however, still take time to repair the damage.

'Any word on the weapons?' he asked again. His heart was beating so fast, he felt it might tear itself from his chest. He knew what had to be done. He had received the message warning them all of what was going to happen to Proxima. He had not expected the Alliance fleet to do anything about it, and was pleasantly surprised to see that they were.

However, he too had seen the one isolated satellite, ready to fire.

'Weapons still inoperational,' said Morgan.

It hardly mattered anyway. The Saint–Germain's weapons systems were little better than standard for an Earthforce capital ship. Her purpose had been to flee rather than go into battle.

It was a task perfectly suited for Francis Xavier DeClercq, the coward.

'Uh, Captain?' said Ensign Morgan. 'The satellite's about to fire.'

'I know,' he said with perfect equanimity. Even had the Saint–Germain's weapons been operational, they would not have been able to destroy the defence satellite soon enough. The Dark Stars were ships of war, designed for this sort of thing. The Saint– Germain was not.

'What are your orders, Captain?'

'Ram it,' said Francis Xavier DeClercq, the coward.

'Oh, boy. Setting ramming speed. Uh, Captain.... what if we ram too fast? I mean, is there meant to be a proper speed for this sort of thing? They didn't really let us carry out trials on this in training.'

DeClercq did not answer. The joke was Morgan's way of facing the end. DeClercq wished he could find relief in humour, but as it was he closed his eyes and saw the Minbari sweeping forward, devils from the dark skies,