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

Instead, the door opened. Trace turned angrily. It was Roberts, who was jostling to take Nelson's place as right–hand man. Based on his natural skills and charisma, he had a long way to go.

'I told you to go away.'

'There's someone wants to have a word,' Roberts replied. 'She said it was important.'

'Well, it can wait.'

'Beggin' pardon, boss. You'll want to hear this.'

Trace sighed, and then pondered for a moment. Something was going to happen. This could be it. 'Send her in. Oh, and Roberts.... if I didn't want to hear this, I'll expect your kneecaps in the post tomorrow, understand?'

'You'll want to hear this, boss. Believe me.'

Roberts stepped back and let a young woman through. Trace looked at her, returning to his chair and sitting down. She looked familiar, but he was damned if he could place her. She was attractive enough, he guessed, if nothing special. 'What can I do for you, Miss...?'

'Rosen,' she said, sitting down opposite him. 'Janice Rosen.'

Now he remembered her. She ran some sort of clinic somewhere, looking after the poor and ill. A pathetic, bleeding–heart, failed doctor who didn't know when to let the terminally worthless die in the gutter where they belonged. However, she paid her protection money on time, and so Trace didn't really care what she did.

'So, what can I do for you, Miss Rosen?'

'Someone came to our clinic two nights ago. A man and a woman. They were bringing someone in, someone quite ill.'

'So? That happens in medical clinics, doesn't it?'

'We don't get people like this in. I didn't recognise the woman, but I'd seen the man on the vids. He was that war hero, the one who retired. Dexter Smith was the name, although he didn't use it.' Trace sat forward. Now he was interested.

'Anyway, I didn't see the person they brought in, not for a while anyway. I wondered at first why they didn't go to a regular hospital up–sector somewhere. Then I saw who it was they brought in.

'It was her. Delenn.'

'Delenn is locked up in some military hospital,' Trace snorted.

'It was her, I'm sure of it. It's got to be her. She had a mild fever and was in quite deep shock. But it was her. She had the.... the headbone and everything.'

'Is she still there?'

'Yes. She's recovering, and she's awake most of the time now, but I told Captain Smith she wouldn't be able to move for another couple of days.

'He doesn't suspect anything, and no one else knows she's there. Well, no one apart from Bo. He runs that pub. He's the one who sent them to the clinic. As soon as I saw who she was, I knew I had to do something. I couldn't go to Security. That would mean they'd find out about my clinic and shut us down. You were the only person I could think of.'

'What about that oath of yours? The one to treat all patients the same?'

'I'll treat everyone who needs it, yes. I don't ask who my patients are, and I think everyone deserves a second chance. I'll look after people wanted by Security, the lost, the alone, criminals, anyone. Everyone deserves medical care. Everyone deserves to be looked after.

'But she's killed billions of people. She killed my mother. I just.... I just had to do something. I had to tell someone. You'll.... be able to handle it, right?'

'I will indeed,' Trace said with a smile. 'You did the right thing. Go back to your clinic and pretend that nothing happened. I'll.... get things sorted out. Don't worry about anything.'

'Thank you,' she said, smiling. 'I knew you would take care of things.'

She left, and Trace waited for a few moments after the door closed before he began to laugh. This was what he had been feeling. This was what was going to happen.

This was his chance to get rid of Smith, to get his hands on that telepath, and to do a major service to the public at the same time. Delenn was the bad guy after all, wasn't she? R'Gov might say all kinds of things about a fair trial, but Delenn didn't deserve one of those. Pit justice would be more than enough to deal with her.

Roberts entered. 'She's gone, boss.'

'I know. Roberts....' Trace paused, thinking about the people outside. Poor, pathetic, deluded sheep, the lot of them. Brainless and worthless, easily led.

'There's something the people of Sector Three–o–one should know. Something I want you to tell them....'

* * *

Captain Francis Xavier DeClercq knew his reputation full well. For almost fifteen years it had been with him. A coward. A coward who had run while better men than him had stayed to fight the Minbari, and had died doing so. He still lived while better men then him had been dead for fifteen years.

He wanted to explain, to justify what he had done, but these days he could not, not even to himself.

Besides, it hardly mattered. The only people who might have understood were dead. All dead. Not just those who fell at Vega 7, but those who had fallen since. General Franklin, Captain Maynard, Captain Hiroshi, countless others, all their faces and names blurring into one.

All dead, and he still lived. He was still standing on the bridge of a ship that some people said he had no right to command.

His crew had been a little sceptical when they heard who was to be their commanding officer. A good number of them had requested a transfer, but some had stayed. Either they did not believe the stories, or they did not care. In either case they had served him, the Saint–Germain and Earthforce well in the months the ship had been operational. They had undertaken numerous missions, and succeeded.

Never once had they run.

And nor would they run now.

General Ryan had told them all what was happening. Long–distance probes had picked up the approach of the Alliance ships. For some reason known only to themselves they had abandoned their inroads towards the Vega system and were making directly for Proxima. There seemed little sense in this. Their approach would be clearly seen for hours before they could arrive. Defences, preparations, everything would be set up. There was the possibility that enemies might be brought around behind them. They had abandoned their victories in Vega.

It was seemingly the work of a madman, but DeClercq knew Sheridan's reputation. He was no madman.

The Saint–Germain had been sent ahead to scout out the numbers and deployment of the Alliance fleets. The hyperspace probes, tethered to the beacon signals, had given vague details, but the Saint–Germain had sensor arrays centuries in advance of anything humanity could come up with. Their allies, the Shadows, had lent their sensor technology to the Saint– Germain just as they had lent their weapons and defences to the De'Molay and the Dark Thunder.

They had been able to track the oncoming fleet without ever being noticed by them. Or so they had thought. DeClercq remembered with a moment's panic how Ensign Morgan had turned to him and said, 'They know we're here.'

It was impossible. No ships could sense the Saint–Germain from this far away, in hyperspace. Not human ships, nor Narn, nor Drazi, nor Minbari.

But these ships were not human ones, nor Narn, nor Drazi, nor Minbari. They were the new ships, the ones that had fought at Beta Durani and proved so deadly there.

The Saint–Germain had managed to escape, slipping into eddies and pockets of hyperspace, moving far from the beacon paths. Another ship would have got lost, but their navigational systems were able to negotiate the dark formlessness of hyperspace with stunning ease.

The border between dimensions opened, and the Saint–Germain slipped out into normal space. The De'Molay, the Dark Thunder and the Morningstar were waiting. DeClercq had dispatched the information he had gathered. The fleet approaching was huge, almost every Alliance ship available. This was against all tactical logic, and it troubled