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

There is one person who could have stopped this, one who has been playing his own game, working for the survival of humanity. But he is not there. He is lying in one of his own cells, his body beaten and battered by his own security guards. Mr. Welles feels the end coming, and he despairs.

In an old building, a centre for business and commerce, two men walk into an area few people know exist. That which they have been planning for so long is coming to pass, and they must be ready. They must also be secure. They know about the firestorm that will soon engulf Proxima, and they also know that they must be made safe from it. Humanity must be guided past this flashpoint, into the future.

Byron feels something stir in his mind, something beginning to wake and rouse.

In a hospital for the poor, the lost, the abandoned and the damned, one who is none of these things half– sleeps, half–wakes, talking to someone she hardly knows. Delenn thinks she can hear a heart beating, slowly, softly, quietly, echoing off the dark walls of this place that is a haven of light in a sea of darkness. Her companion knows this, but he thinks they are safe there.

Somewhere else in Sector 301, a man sits at his desk and thinks about the future. He is dreaming of power, of ultimate power. He is dreaming of crushing his enemies, for what else is power for?

Janice Rosen is having a crisis of conscience. She is a doctor, taught and trained to give healing and succour to all who require it. But she is also a human who has seen her race devastated and terrified by the woman who lies in one of her beds. For hours Janice Rosen struggles with her conscience, until she finally decides on a course of action.

General Edward Ryan is heading for a meeting with people he knows he will have to send to their deaths.

* * *

General Edward Ryan was a soldier. He was also a member of the Resistance Government of Humanity, a position he had inherited after his predecessor, General William Hague, had put a PPG in his mouth. There were times when Ryan felt like doing the same.

He had found a way round this, but he sometimes wondered if the price of keeping going was worse than if he just stopped going altogether.

He ignored everything. He forgot about the things he had seen in the Government; the dirty dealings, the alliances signed with alien races who made his flesh creep. He ignored the increasing number of soldiers suffering from psychiatric illness as a result of being on the new ships. He tried to blank out the dreams and whispers he knew followed him whenever he was on the Morningstar. He forgot the names and faces of those he had buried or lost. Philby, lost in some foolish attack at Epsilon 3; Walker Smith, killed at Beta Durani; Dexter Smith, unable to bear the constant stress; General Hague. And these were only in the last three years. There were over fifteen years worth of dead faces he tried to ignore.

All he could see was his duty. He was a soldier. It was his duty to obey the orders of his President. That was it. Nothing else.

He looked at the three other people in this room, the three people who represented the greatest hope for the protection of the human race. He wondered how they coped with the things they had seen. What drove them forward?

Captain Francis Xavier DeClercq of the Saint–Germain was sitting quietly, elbows resting on the table, fingers steepled in front of his face. Ryan had a fairly good idea what drove him. For years he had fought against accusations of cowardice. At a time when experienced officers had been as rare and as valuable as gold dust, DeClercq had been overlooked again and again. Ryan's struggle to get him appointed captain of the Saint–Germain had been the hardest he had fought since the Minbari.

But his faith had been rewarded. The Saint–Germain had been a great success. Unlike the other ships in the fleet, it was a scouting and exploration vessel. It had carried out hidden sorties into Minbari space. It had found abandoned worlds and brought back vital technology.

But now it was needed here. All the ships were. DeClercq did not seem angry or worried by his recall to defend Proxima. He looked.... strangely at peace, with the world and with himself.

Ryan shifted his gaze to the figure next to him. Captain Bethany Tikopai was toying with the end of her long black braid, seemingly deep in thought. Ryan also thought he knew what motivated her. She had a daughter, a teenager now, born around the time that Earth was dying.

Ryan sometimes wished he had children. They were something to fight for. Simple, unequivocal. They were the new generation, the future. They had to be protected, and that was that.

The De'Molay had only recently come off the production lines, and Tikopai had only just finished assembling her crew. Both ship and crew were untested in full combat, but they should be fine. The De'Molay represented the height of Shadow technology, much more so than the Morningstar. It was said by the designers and technicians to be all but invincible.

Ryan was glad he was on the Morningstar.

The third person present was not sitting. Captain Jerry Barns was standing just behind his chair, arms folded high over his chest. He was a tall man, with an impassive, alert expression. Ryan could not read him at all, but his skill in battle was well known. His Dark Thunder had been operational for some months now, and had been tested in numerous skirmishes with raiders. Barns radiated a calm demeanour that offset the more.... swashbuckling tendencies of his first officer, Commander Ramirez. The two of them worked well together.

Ryan sat forward and laid his reports on the desk. Three pairs of eyes turned to look at him.

'Proxima needs us,' he said simply. It was all that needed to be said.

* * *

The battle was over, leaving behind only three things.

First, there was the debris of the Narn ships, floating in space. Almost the entire fleet had been destroyed, blown out of the sky. The Centauri ships had taken some of course, but most of them had fallen to the Shadows, the strange aliens who appeared from nowhere and killed in a near–instant. One of the Shadow ships had been damaged, but nothing more. They had disappeared just as the final Narn ships fled.

Second, there was the prospect of the ground war still to come. That would be won, Lord–General Marrago knew, but only at great cost in life. The Narns had occupied the colony for months, and would still have substantial numbers of soldiers based there. The Centauri would be able to mount an uprising, and they had already won air control, but it would still take time before the colony was completely theirs again.

Third, there were the emotions of victory. Relief and euphoria of those who still lived, coupled with sadness and loss for those who did not. There was the pain of the injured, the hope of the survivors.

Their commander, victorious again, felt none of these things. He felt only fear. Fear for the future he had helped to create.

This was the second time he had called upon the Shadows for aid. A second favour he now owed them. This deal had been secret so far, although only just. Word would surely reach the Kha'Ri now, maybe even with proof. Once might be held to be coincidence.... twice....

That was for the future. For now, there was only the present. The reclamation of Tolonius 7.

His commscreen chimed, and he answered it. He was relieved to see the face of Captain Carn Mollari looking at him. 'Captain,' he said. 'What is the state of the Valerius?' Carn's ship had taken heavy damage.

'Badly damaged, but it can be repaired, Lord–General. Engines are still functioning well. We have begun to ship our soldiers down to the surface as per your orders.'

'Good, Captain.' There was a pause. 'Is there anything else?'

'Those ships, Lord–General.... the ones that came to our aid. I have seen those ships before. I thought I saw them when the Narns attacked our home, but now I am certain.

'Why would Shadow ships help us, Lord–General?' His voice carried a faint hint of accusation, as if he knew.

'It is not our place to question,' he replied, wishing he could have phrased it better. He was a soldier, not a silvery–tongued courtier, and yet he wished he could come up with some excuse, some explanation. Anything. There were a million lies he could have crafted to disguise the truth of this deal, but he could not think of any.

All he could think of was the truth.

They offered to help me. They asked for nothing in return but a simple favour. That was all.