Гэрет Уильямс - Темное, кривое зеркало. Том 3 : След на песке

Lyta Alexander breathed out slowly as she walked towards her goal. She knew what she had to do, and she knew how.

She should be in the medical bay now, she knew. Her efforts at the Third Line had almost killed her. As it was she had been drained to the point of exhaustion, pushed beyond her limits, her body almost too weak to push blood, to draw in air, to stay alive.

The light in her soul had gone, and she was alone, for the first time in over two years. She could only remember feeling this alone once before, after Marcus had died. It was for him that she was doing this. She knew that it was wrong, illegal certainly. She did not care. To let this go, to abandon this chance…. it would be as if Marcus had not mattered, and he had been almost everything that had mattered.

Her last act as a mortal woman was approaching. She knew they were coming back for her. She could feel the slow-growing light returning to her mind. It was not Kosh, but it was like him. Another Vorlon. They were almost ready now, stretching their influence across space to her. They were ready to move. A bargain had been made, and Kosh's death had been the first part in the sealing of it.

They had awoken her. Whether that was intentional or an accident she did not know. Nor did she know whether the act she was about to do was by their will, or her own. What she did know was what she wanted to do this thing. She wanted to do it very much.

For Marcus, if nothing else.

There were Narn Rangers guarding the doors, of course. She had expected that, but she had avoided the doctors at the medical centre, and she would evade the guards the same way.

They stepped forward, and with one sudden thought, both of them fell. She knew the pass-code to get her into the prison complex. Her head was aching now, blood pounding in her ears and before her eyes, but she carried on. Her new-found strength was fading fast, but she managed to drag herself onwards. This was almost over.

She stopped outside the door she needed. Few of these cells were occupied, and this particular occupant was very special indeed.

The cell door opened, and Lyta Alexander entered. She looked down at the sleeping form of Susan Ivanova, and lightly fingered the gun in her hand.

I will ask her. I…. will ask her. I will…. ask her.

But first, duty. But first, responsibility. But first…. but first, to relay the news he had learned mere moments before.

Commander David Corwin knew a great deal about bad news. But he had never in his life imagined he would have to deliver the information he had just been given. He was not sure he believed it himself. He supposed he should have told Delenn instantly, but there had been…. complications with the salvage, and he had wanted to be sure.

Now he wished he was not.

And he was still thinking about Mary. His silent promise to himself seemed so hollow now.

There was no answer to his call at Delenn's door. He paused, then rang the chime again. Well, it was not a true chime, but a cacophony of hideous screeches and bangs. Drazi hearing was much less refined than human, and he had no idea just what Minbari hearing was like. Still, they seemed to have toned it down for Delenn's quarters, which was just as well. He remembered a time when he and the Captain had been visiting the Drazi homeworld for a few days, staying in the Government buildings, and the noise….

He breathed out, calming his thoughts. Complete gibberish. He was more afraid of the next few minutes of conversation than he had been at any other moment in his life.

There was still no answer, and he closed in eyes in silent thanks. Maybe she was asleep. He would not be able to tell her now, then. Good. Put it off, don't worry about it now. Maybe…. maybe it was all a mistake. Maybe everything had fixed itself while he was gone. Maybe….

"Yes?" came Delenn's voice, and he swore to himself. "Who is there?"

"It's…. me, Delenn. Commander Corwin."

"Oh." There was a pause. "Open."

He entered, and took only the briefest step into the room. He could see her there, still sitting in exactly the same position she had been in the last time he had spoken to her. How long ago had that been? Four hours? Five? Longer?

"Commander. Is there…. is there any news?"

This will break her heart, he thought. She loves him. She really, truly does love him. She's not the enemy. She's not a monster. She loves the Captain.

And I have to tell her. She was right. He's not dead, but there are worse things than death.

Faith manages. It hasn't managed very well here.

"Delenn," he said softly. "They've found him."

Chapter 2

He is running. He is not sure why. He does not know where he is running from, or where he is running to, but he knows he is running.

Something is chasing him. He does not know what. He knows only that he must escape from it. And it is gaining on him. It is faster than he is.

There is a brief flash of light, and he sees himself standing there on the bridge of the Parmenion, feeling the force of the impact. Something is falling. He is falling. It hits his back, and there is a snapping noise. He was unconscious when this happened, he knows. Or was he awake in some sense? Why was he still alive? He had tried to die, tried and prayed that his death would be an easy one, a purposeful one. His contagion would never affect his colleagues.

Yes, he must be dead. Oh, people had survived accidents like that, but that was rare. He had tried so hard to die. Why…. why had the universe not granted him his wish?

He was still running. It was just behind him. It was so much faster than he was, but he was confident. He could escape. He had endured worse than this. He could not be defeated. He was the Starkiller, the legendary hero of humanity. Nothing could defeat him.

He suddenly stopped, and fell. He struck the ground, and instantly tried to scramble to his feet.

He could not do it.

He could not move. Not at all.

It was upon him now. He could almost see it. He could….

His eyes opened. There was no darkness. In fact, the room was quite light. There was no monster chasing him, there was only Delenn, asleep in a chair at the side of his bed. Her position looked awkward. She did not even like sleeping in a horizontal, human bed.

He tried to reach over and touch her, but he could not. In fact, he could hardly even move his head. Straining his eyes, he gazed as far down as he could, and saw the straps and restraints holding him down. There was even some sort of framework immobilising his head. That explained it. He must have been injured worse than he had thought.

Worse than he had thought? He had died, surely? He….

No, he was alive. In a strange way he was relieved. Yes, he was still a threat, both to her and to everyone else he cared for, but that was a problem for another day. He'd have more time with her. Maybe Sinoval would manage to find a cure. Anything was possible.

He couldn't feel his legs.

The realisation suddenly hit him. He couldn't feel a thing. No itching, no numbness, no sensation at all. He had countless old injuries there, old wounds that throbbed or itched. Nothing. An anaesthetic of some sort, perhaps?

He couldn't feel his arms.

He couldn't feel anything below his neck.

What had happened? He had been standing on the bridge of the Parmenion, alone. The ship was going to ram one of the Shadow vessels. He was going to die. Something…. something had exploded. He had turned, and the whole ship had shaken. He had fallen, hitting the floor, and something landed on top of him.

Something…. something had snapped.

"De…. Delenn!" he said, suddenly very afraid of what had happened. He knew he should let her sleep, but she was the only person he could see here. Perhaps the only person around. How had the battle gone anyway? Did Babylon 4 get safely back to the past?

"Delenn!"

She roused and sat up, rubbing at her eyes. Then her hands fell. "John," she whispered. "You're…. you're awake!"

She moved to his side and began touching his arms and fingers, caressing them gently. He could not feel her touch.

"Did…. did we win?"

"I…. It is hard to say…. truly. But yes…. we won."

He tried to nod, before realising he could not. He could not even sigh. His breathing was steady and regular, but quite independent of his control.

"What happened to me?" he whispered.

Tears in her eyes, she told him.

"I warned you about him. I knew he could not be trusted."

Alfred Bester sighed and leaned back in his chair. It had been a gamble, all of it. A desperate gamble, and it had failed. It had failed very badly, and that failure had quite possibly cost him everything.

"Sheridan's thrown his lot in with them now. Completely. It won't even make a difference if he's dead. His crew will follow his example. Damn him!"

He turned to look at his companion. Captain Ari Ben Zayn, an Earthforce veteran. A highly decorated soldier, survivor and leader of countless campaigns. He had always been a ground-based soldier however, and so had missed much of the action of the Minbari War. He had always been a useful friend and servant to Bester, and he had made a point of saving the man when it became clear that all was lost on Earth. Ben Zayn had been his most valued advisor, an expert on all things military, and the captain of the first of Bester's starships.

A mundane only, and that was sad. Were he but as gifted as the weakest of Bester's telepaths, he would have all the authority Bester could give him. As it was, he was kept ill-informed. He was still however the highest ranking of all Bester's mundane accomplices.

It was good that he had got away from Babylon 4 before the battle had begun. Exact news of what had happened was scarce, but early reports indicated that the devastation had been catastrophic, the death toll immense. Babylon 4 was gone. There was no word from the Great Machine. Donne was almost certainly dead. Garibaldi was either dead or had defected. A pity. Bester had actually liked him. A true shame.

A desperate gamble, and it had failed, but all was not over yet. It was true that Bester had made many enemies with that particular move, but he had other options.

He was running them through in his mind. Almost certain: G'Kar knew of his treachery, and that particular alliance was very dead. That would definitely mean Garibaldi was lost, as was everyone else who had been stationed at Babylon 4. Fortunately Donne had been the only telepath, at least the only one of his telepaths. Lyta Alexander had never really been his for a long time, not since the Vorlons had done something to her.

Probable: the United Alliance and G'Kar's Rangers knew he was not to be trusted. It was likely that they would have other concerns at present, especially if the fighting had been as bloody as reports indicated. Still, they might very well decide to come for him here at Sanctuary.

Possible: Ambassador Sheridan and the Resistance Government knew he had double-crossed them. That would depend on how many of their assault party was still alive. If they knew, retribution was almost inevitable. He knew full well just what a threat his people posed to the Shadows, and if he could not be their ally, then he was their enemy.

He sat forward. "Are you loyal to me, Ari?" he asked. He did not have to ask. He knew the answer even without scanning his mind.

Sanctuary was the key. It was too open and vulnerable. The Corps — and therefore he — had resources elsewhere; resources no one else knew about.

"Of course, Alfred," he said. "You don't need to ask that."

"Sanctuary is vulnerable at the moment. Very vulnerable. We may have to evacuate to…. other places. If that happens, I may need you to fight a holding action. We need an increase in the number of probes monitoring hyperspace from all directions, even the ones off the main channels. We will also need the Ozymandias in constant combat readiness. Make sure there are at least three…. no, four, telepaths on the ship at all times. Keep Harriman as your main telepath, but it is imperative that we have others."

"Of course," he said.

That was the beginning. Start moving out the most important things. Files, certain experiments….

And Talia. Yes, get her away from here as soon as possible.

She was, in his eyes, the most important thing not just on the station, but in his life.

His eyes.

They were what she remembered most clearly about him.

His eyes.

To any telepath a person's eyes were the mirrors of their soul. One look, and she could see everything she needed. His vulnerability, covered by a hardened shell of cynicism. A lost yearning for protection and a cause. He had been one of the first to join Sheridan's little war, and one of the first to die in that cause.

He was all that had mattered to her. She had accepted her loss, had resolved to continue, taking his cause for her own. The Vorlons had influenced her, manipulated her, but it had been the memory of his eyes she had seen every time she pushed herself forward.

Kosh was gone now as well, and she was alone again. She would not be alone for long, she knew. Another Vorlon would come for her soon, but there was a moment before that would happen, a chance to complete one last duty from the life she was soon to leave behind.

Lyta Alexander raised her PPG and pointed it squarely at the head of the sleeping Susan Ivanova. She would not wake up. A simple telepathic nudge would see to that. It might be…. better if Ivanova could see her death coming, but it would be easier this way.

There was a buzzing sound as she readied the weapon. Her grip firm and her posture straight, she kept it pointed at the slumbering woman.

She could not pull the trigger.

She swore silently and lowered the weapon. She was not a murderer, not in cold blood like this. She had thought she could, but…. It was fortunate her resolve had lasted her even this far.

"You deserve it," she whispered. "You deserve all this…."

But she could not do it. Not kill someone like this.

There was another way.

She stepped forward, and pocketed her gun. She was not sure how much time she would have, but there would be time enough for this. Slowly, hardly daring to breathe, she removed her gloves. She had to see, had to be sure.

Lightly, she touched her fingertips to Ivanova's forehead.

She was in a room somewhere. She did not know where. It was cold. Not uncomfortably so, but chilly all the same. There was only a young girl here. She was sitting on the floor, playing with an old-fashioned, raggedy doll.

"Where am I?" she asked. An image from Ivanova's childhood, perhaps? The decorations looked Russian, she supposed.

The child stopped playing and looked up. She was about…. ten, perhaps. Maybe a little younger. Lyta had never really had much to do with children.