A Dark, Distorted Mirror. Volume 5 : Among the Stars, like Giants. Part 3 : On the Edges of Perception addm-5 Read online

  A Dark, Distorted Mirror. Volume 5 : Among the Stars, like Giants. Part 3 : On the Edges of Perception

  ( A Dark, Distorted Mirror - 5 )

  Gareth D. Williams

  For a year and a half, he has been gone. Shrouded in mystery and rumour, he has been walking in the shadows at the corner of the mind's eye. It is time for him to return. As the Brotherhood Without Banners prepares the next stage of its devastating campaign of terror, as Dexter Smith struggles to investigate what is happening to the telepaths, as G'Kar learns some horrifying secrets, and as Sheridan stares into the abyss of his own soul, Sinoval will reach out his hand and return to the galaxy. And two steps behind him.... is Sebastian.

  Gareth D. Williams

  A Dark, Distorted Mirror.

  Volume 5 : Among the Stars, like Giants.

  Part 3 : On the Edges of Perception

  Chapter 1

  It is impossible to discuss the final years of the Alliance without mentioning the individual people involved. More than anything else, the Alliance was the creation of individuals, and the events which led to its collapse especially so. General Sheridan the Shadowkiller, the Blessed Delenn, G'Kar the Messiah, Emperor Londo — all of these cast long shadows over the exploits of others, but they were only the stars at the zenith of the firmament. Others moved and acted, their movements and actions perhaps smaller and more shadowed, but every bit as significant.

  Without Vejar, without Dexter Smith, without Talia Winters or Lennier or Jorah Marrago, could events have transpired as they did? Would Delenn or Sheridan or the others have been able to act without them?

  But of course, if we are to talk about individuals, there is one who cannot be ignored, who cannot be forgotten, no matter how much some might wish to.

  Primarch Sinoval the Accursed will be with us always.

  For good or ill.

  WATKINS, J. K. (2295) A Cathedral of the Ages: The Sinoval Conspiracy.

  Chapter 4 of The Rise and Fall of the United Alliance, the End of the Second Age and the Beginning of the Third, vol. 4, The Dreaming Years.

  Ed: S. Barringer, G. Boshears, A. E. Clements, D. G. Goldingay & M. G. Kerr.

  * * *

  There was pain, an agony of the souls screaming. Their memories, their lives, their whispers, their knowledge, all being stolen, all violated.

  Sinoval could feel it. He was as much a part of the Well as the Well was of him. The Well of Souls, repository of the wisdom of millennia, stronghold of the last souls of races long since destroyed. A memory, and like all memories, with the potential for great joy or great anguish.

  The pain ended, in time. The invader was driven away. He was not yet ready to attempt to conquer Cathedral itself. Despite his knowledge, he needed more time to prepare. That did not matter. He had done enough.

  "We shall meet again, Primarch," said the voice in his mind. Calm, confident, clipped. The voice of one who has never known fear, never known doubt, never known anything but the absolute certainty of what he is doing. "Have no fear of that."

  "I do not fear you," Sinoval hissed, knowing the invader could hear him.

  "I know," Sebastian said as he departed. "But you will."

  Sinoval did not know how long he lay there. He stirred, coming back to himself through a haze of red mist, to see Susan running towards him, two Praetors Tutelary at her side. He had sent them away, not that they could have done any good.

  "What happened?" she asked. "Are we under attack?"

  He accepted her hand, and rose awkwardly to his feet.

  "I think we have much less time than we had hoped," he said gravely.

  * * *

  The drinking house was dark and noisy. He did not like either, but at least he could not hear his own mind with the noise here, which was something. The humans sometimes complained about loud noises by saying that it was too loud for them to think.

  As far as he was concerned, that was a good thing.

  His contact was late, but that could mean anything. Anything at all. He did not know the Narn's name, only that he was connected to certain individuals in the Kha'Ri, and that he had information. The silent, dark-clothed figure sitting in the corner of the bar knew the value of information.

  It was why he was here, after all.

  He raised his head slightly as he noticed a fight starting at the far corner of the room. Not surprising. There was a great deal of violence about on Narn these days. Most of it directed at aliens. There were fewer of them around than there had been.

  There were no Centauri, obviously, but even some of the Narns' former allies, such as the Drazi and the Brakiri, were suffering. In the corner of the room, a Drazi was facing off against four Narns. The Drazi must have known this would happen, but then they had never been famous for their peaceful nature. With their world occupied and humiliating 'sanctions' imposed, they had to try to win somewhere.

  The silent man remembered where he had been when he heard about the Drazi blockade and the war. Rather embarrassingly for someone in his position, he had heard it in drunken gossip, and had at first dismissed it as nothing more. Then he heard more confirmatory reports, enough to make him believe, despite how much he had wanted to deny it.

  He supposed he should not care. He had few friends. Probably just the one, and he was not Drazi. Still, it raised the question, what had any of them been fighting for if not for the freedom to make one's own choices? The Drazi blockade and sanctions seemed to argue against that.

  In the other corner, the Drazi had downed two of his assailants through strategic use of a chair. He could not however block the stone hurled from another table. It struck him squarely under the armpit and he fell, in obvious agony. Narns piled on top of him, kicking and stomping.

  "Not an uncommon sight," said a voice, and the silent man looked up. A Narn was standing in front of him. He matched the description given, but that was not enough these days.

  "The password?"

  "You know who I work for. Don't make this any harder. I want this over with."

  "The password."

  "Odin. There. Happy now?"

  "It will do." He reached out a hand, and the Narn sat down.

  "Stupid password anyway," the Narn said. "What does it mean?"

  "It is a human God, one very few of them believe in now. He gave up one of his eyes for wisdom, and he had two ravens called Thought and Memory who flew around the world observing things for him."

  "Humans! They'll believe anything." The Narn was looking around nervously. Everyone seemed to be paying attention to the events in the corner.

  "Were you followed?"

  "I don't think so. I backtracked and double-tailed and went into several pubs and all sorts. If anyone can follow me through all that, then we're both already dead. I've got it."

  "Good." Beneath the table, in two casual motions, a data crystal was passed over and hidden.

  "That's all I could get, understand? But it is enough. It's everything you asked for."

  "I shall commend your name to my master."

  "Don't. Do not even mention me at all. You never saw me."

  "Very well." He nodded, keeping a careful eye on the corner. Everyone seemed occupied with what was going on there, but the voice in his head had fallen very quiet. It was not simply that he could not hear it, but that it was not talking.

  "I'm done," the Narn said, rising.

  Another Narn appeared from nowhere to block his path. Female, slightly built and dresse
d in clothes long past their best, she did not look out of place, and yet.... His contact blanched and stumbled backwards.

  "Thenta Ma'Kur," she whispered, reaching out with one hand. She caught his contact on the shoulder and he fell, not even having had a chance to scream.

  Somewhere, in the part of his mind that was divorced from reality, the part that he had trained not to care, he admired the precision of the murder. No one had noticed but him, and the death would appear entirely natural, perhaps the result of too much alcohol, or some tragic medical condition. He did not know Narn physiology, but he recognised the nature of the attack, and he knew a nerve strike when he saw one.

  "I apologise," the assassin whispered to him. "You have involved yourself in a matter that is not your concern."

  "An unfortunate reason for death."

  "Life is like that." She moved carefully around the table.

  Both of them exploded into motion at the same instant, and again he admired her strategy. He could not fight this battle as stealthily as she could, and if he was seen getting into a fight, everyone else in the bar would turn on him and he would be beaten to death as surely as the Drazi was being. Most people would not pay any attention to his death, just another alien in the wrong part of town.

  Still, life was made up of risks.

  His denn'bok appeared instantly in his hands and extended upwards, smashing through the table, aiming for her heart. She was too good for that to be a surprise killing blow, and she stepped backwards and aside. Still, it did enough to keep her from completing her strike.

  Leaping upwards, he vaulted over the ruined table just as the cries of anger erupted from the corner. The assassin pointed at him and shouted loudly. "An alien! He killed one of us!"

  There was a rumble of anger and a mass of Narns charging in his direction. Taking care to sidestep the woman's attack — nowhere near as clumsy as she made it appear to the others — he sprinted for the door, long dark cloak trailing behind him. One of the Narns tried pushing a chair into his path, but he simply jumped over it.

  The air was hot and dusty on his skin, but he had known worse, and he continued to run. He would lose most of them easily, he knew that, but the assassin was another matter.

  It was fortunate that he had spent many months studying this district of G'Khamazad. It was always wise to know the land in which you might be called upon to fight. He knew all the paths to take to his intended meeting — the quickest, the most roundabout, the highest, the lowest, the most easily concealed.

  He took a combination of them all, occasionally doubling back on himself, or moving at a tangent. He had lost the crowd, he knew that, but maybe not the assassin. Still, if he could make his rendezvous quickly and then move on, the information might get away safely and he could lead the assassin on a wild gok chase.

  He was rounding a corner, still running at full pelt, when a Narn child walked directly into his path. She looked up at him, eyes wide with horror, frozen to the spot.

  Acting on split-second reflexes he threw himself aside, landing awkwardly, bruising his shoulder and side. He quickly patted his pouch and was relieved to find the data crystal intact.

  The girl had fallen over. Evidently he had merely clipped her. "Are you all right?" she asked nervously. Obviously she had seldom seen the likes of him before.

  "I am fine, little one," he said, rising quickly and looking around for the assassin.

  "I'm not little," she said, with a trace of indignation. "It's my naming ceremony soon."

  "I am glad to hear it." There! A flicker of movement. He went from a standstill to sprint in one instant. The girl made to say something, but whatever it was, he did not hear. He was too busy running.

  That had cost him far too long. He did not have much time, and the pain in his knee and shoulder was slowing him down. There was no other way. He had to make it to the rendezvous point as swiftly as possible and pass over the information.

  Just when the abandoned house was in view, she swept down from the shadows, a long knife in her hand. She thrust it at him and he jumped back, drawing and extending his denn'bok. The longer reach would give him an advantage, but not enough.

  Hopping backwards on to one foot, she hurled the dagger directly at his head. He only just parried it with his pike, and in that instant she moved forward, another knife in her hand. Frantically he kept her at bay, but at the cost of his balance. Stumbling backwards, he was forced into desperate defensive action.

  Suddenly she spun to one side, her body instinctively dodging the PPG blast that came from nowhere. There was a smell of scorching flesh from the side of her arm and she fell, dropping the knife. A quick rush forward, and the end of his denn'bok connected with the underside of her jaw. There was a crack as her neck broke.

  A final blow caved in the side of her head, and then he turned to his saviour.

  It was a Narn — tall, a warrior, carrying a PPG in one hand and a sword in the other. A ragged leather eye-patch covered half of his face.

  "Have you got it?" Ta'Lon asked.

  Lennier handed over the data crystal, and then disappeared without a word.

  * * *

  Senator Dexter Smith did not know his apartment had been broken into until the door had closed behind him and locked.

  There was no single sign. There was certainly nothing obvious. His home had not been ransacked. Everything seemed exactly as he had left it, from the jacket thrown casually over the chair the night before to the pack of cards by the side of the breakfast table — even the half-finished coffee (sadly artificial) from this morning.

  But there was something else. A sensation. Others might have called it a function of his latent telepathic abilities, but he thought it was something more primaeval than that.

  A sense of violation. The unrest that signals something strange and alien invading one's home, one's place of sanctuary. The outside world was not meant to come here.

  Whoever this person was, he or she was good. His security system was by no means infallible, but it was among the best available. The Government budget did stretch to protecting its Senators, even in such an unfashionable area as the Pit.

  And this person had breezed through it as if it wasn't even there.

  He walked forward slowly, surprised by his reaction. He had learned to trust his instincts a long time ago, and they told him not to call Security.

  There was a slight creak from the room to his left, and he frowned. His bedroom. Why would anyone be in there?

  Inching towards the door, he moved as quietly and stealthily as he could. The door was slightly ajar. He tried to remember if he had closed it before leaving that morning, but the memory would not come. He thought he had.

  He slowly reached out his hand and slid it open, keeping as far back as he could.

  "About time," said a husky female voice.

  Dexter stepped into the doorway.

  Talia was lying on his bed, her shoes kicked off on to the floor, a half full bottle of whisky by her side. A half-full bottle of his whisky.

  She threw it to him, and he caught it easily.

  "Reunion drink?"

  * * *

  It was a feeling every soldier knew very well. The strange combination of boredom and fear that comes with the knowledge that a battle is near, but not imminent. The battle is an abstract concept, something that will not happen today or maybe even tomorrow, but soon nonetheless. It is hard to imagine the enemy, hard even to remember the reason for the fight, but the prospect of the battle fills every moment. There is nothing necessary left to do, and not enough time for pleasant, unnecessary things.

  A strange feeling, and one that a soldier as experienced as Jorah Marrago knew well.

  He was in a bad mood, and he knew it. His mercenaries knew it as well, and they were all taking care to stay away from him. Even Dasouri knew better than to trouble him at a time like this. He had been less than pleased with their close combat practice. He had even snapped at Senna following one of her sa
rcastic asides.

  A new attack was in the offing. He could tell. Even his fellow 'captains' in the Brotherhood Without Banners could tell. The fruits of the raid on Gorash were long since consumed, and the Brotherhood had grown since then with Marrago's own addition, to say nothing of certain lesser mercenary companies. There had to be new, fresh ground somewhere.

  But where? They had been arguing non-stop for over a week. Worlds and stations and bases had all been suggested and discarded and suggested again. Marrago wondered just how they had managed to attack Gorash at all. They would have trouble just agreeing on a seating order, let alone a battle plan.

  Which of course made them a perfect target for him to take over eventually. He was the most experienced general among them — more experienced than most of them put together. He was also the newest, and the most distrusted, but still.... With time and luck and skill he would become their leader soon enough. A couple of good performances in a raid or two, and he would have them in the palm of his hand.

  That had been his original plan, when he had followed up n'Grath's invitation and joined the Brotherhood. A couple of things had derailed it since then, but the basic plan held.

  Well, three things in fact.

  The first was the Narns. The captain, ostensibly, was G'Lorn, former aide to Warleader G'Sten, but it would have taken a much blinder man than Marrago not to recognise that it was the female who really wielded the power there. He had finally learned that her name was Mi'Ra, and that G'Lorn had brought her with him as his lover. He had not recognised her name, but he knew there was definitely more to her than appeared at first sight. Thenta Ma'Kur? The Narn assassin guild had come after him once or twice before, and their assassins had moved with the same easy grace she exhibited. He was determined to continue watching both of them.

  The second was the Z'shailyl, the Shadowspawn. He held more power than any of the others, and he could have taken the leadership entirely if he had wanted to, if for no other reason than his Wykhheran monstrosities. That he had not done so suggested some deeper motive. Perhaps a simple strength-in-numbers philosophy. Perhaps he was testing the others just as Marrago was, biding his time, waiting for the moment.