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

You did not let us show you heaven.

So we will show you hell.

The Dark Star s hummed, the trapped souls within them focussing their minds and efforts at the commands of far distant masters. Through their eyes the Vorlons watched, and through their mouths the Vorlons sent their reply.

We will show them heaven. And we will show them hell. You are not needed.

Still the battle did not start. The Alliance ships continued to jump into view, taking up their positions, each ship according to their precise orders. Defence, shock attack, reserves. The whole plan had been evaluated, calculated, prepared.

The war was over. Now.

And still the battle did not start. Neither side moved. The Alliance could not know that the Shadows were arguing amongst themselves. The Vorlons did, and, sensing some final deception on the part of their ancient enemies, waited.

A message was sent to the Dark Star 1, flagship of the fleet, to General John 'Shadowkiller' Sheridan himself.

A reply was sent, and from the dead world of Z'ha'dum, there came a shuttle.

The Vorlons still waited.

He had stared into the face of death twice before in his life, and, through fate or miracle or chance or stubbornness or destiny, he had survived both times. He knew that this time he would not.

He walked with a limp, his every breath clouded with smoke. Things rattled inside him, things that should not be moving like that. Bright lights flashed before his eyes.

He remembered hanging there, in that dark room, tears rolling down his eyes as he looked at the body of his wife. They had killed her, with their experiments and their tortures. He had never hated anything before in his life, but he hated now. Oh, how he hated them now! He would sell his soul for revenge. They had taken his wife and his daughter, and maybe his son too.

And then something had moved, emerging from the darkness. He recognised the silhouette, and a curse rasped from his mouth. He wanted revenge.... but he could not move, not so much as an inch.

"Come back.... have you?" he had whispered. "What more can you do to me? Kill me.... If you have any mercy at all.... just kill me!"

"Oh no," said the figure, her cat's eyes dancing with pleasure. He knew her. Not a Minbari, no, but she might as well have been. "I have no mercy, and you aren't going to die. Not for a very long time. There are some people who want to meet you."

He shifted back to the present and saw the guards looking at him. He limped past them, moving as they directed. He had a mission to perform, his last mission for the people who had treated him well, the people who had given him a chance, not just for revenge, but also to do some good.

There were others who could have been sent, he supposed. People in better health than he was. Drakh magi. A Zener surgeon or diplomat. A Z'shailyl even. But they had chosen him. The Pale and Silent King had chosen him.... for this last meeting.

One last warning. One last message before everything collapsed into flames.

He could feel the presence of the Pale and Silent King in the back of his mind, illuminated through one of the Drakh mage–orbs. The Drakh armada might have been torn apart and scattered to the winds at Minbar two years ago, but they still had their uses.

As, apparently, did an old man. An old, dying man.

He remembered the flash of light that had seared his eyes and his mind. Welles was at his side, Clark before him, ready to unleash devastation on Proxima. One of them had moved, and then there had been a roar, a burst of energy, and the sound of Clark's body tearing apart.

He should have died then. The Shadows had been able to save him to get him off–world, but he still should have died. Not even the Zener could fully repair the injuries he had suffered, the pain the Vorlon's light had caused to his Shadow–enhanced body. He wondered if Welles still lived.

The Shadows had not been able to save him after all. The Zener had restored his sight and mended most of his bones, but there was little more they could do, especially with the lack of resources. He was a dying man, and he knew it.

But he had one duty to fulfill first.

The guards stepped aside, Narns mostly. The infamous Narn Bat Squad. A wry smile touched his face, as he entered the room.

General John Sheridan and the Blessed Delenn rose to meet him.

Former Ambassador David Sheridan coughed. "Hello, son."

We should fight.

No, there can be another way.

What other way is there? We should fight. The Enemy is beaten. We can destroy them. We can take their world. We can....

Why do they not fight now? There is some trick, some plan. The Eldest has been talking to them.

The Eldest will not betray us. He will not aid them.

When we own Z'ha'dum, we will ask him. We will serve him, and follow in his path. But for now.... he has chosen to live with them.

They were unworthy of him.

Yes. And see, they have been defeated. Let them have their last, little deception. They have lost.

So, what shall we do?

Wait. Still.

"Hello, son."

"Dad?"

Delenn straightened, looking at the man before her with calm eyes. He looked ill, broken and shattered. In one way he reminded her of Welles, in those last days. Knowing he was dying, but with an inner peace, an acceptance of what was to come.

Then she looked at John. He looked torn, stunned surprise meeting with a steely resolve. As far as she was aware, John had not known his father was still alive. Ambassador Sheridan had come to Kazomi 7 to negotiate a false peace treaty, and he had spoken with his son then. Delenn had passed that off as a fever–dream on John's part, not wishing to hurt him with the knowledge that his father was working for the Enemy.

She supposed he might have acquired that knowledge on Proxima, but she honestly did not know. Gently, slowly, she reached out one hand to brush against John's. Still he did not say anything.

David Sheridan was one of the people responsible for the death of their son, whom she had ironically and unknowingly given his name. She had chosen the name David because of Captain Corwin, not for John's father, but the name was there in any case.

She should hate him, but she could not. She had not hated Welles, and had forgiven him at the end. Hatred was not the answer, not to anything. She did not even hate the Shadows any more.

"I thought you were dead," John whispered.

"I should have been. The Shadows got me off Proxima just in time, and their scientists patched me up.... as well as they could. I'm still dying, mind."

"You could come back to Proxima," John said quickly. "Or to Kazomi Seven. Between all of us, we can probably find a way to heal you properly."

Ambassador Sheridan was surprised, and so was Delenn. She looked up into John's face, and found no sign of emotion there. Nothing at all. The sight scared her.

"Ah," the Ambassador said. Then he sighed. "No, I don't think that's a viable option any more. I made my decision, and I will stick with the consequences."

"You taught me that."

"Yes."

Another silence. Delenn tightened her grip on John's hand. His skin felt very cold. She made to speak, but John spoke first.

"Why are you here, Dad? What is this - some last threat or joke from the Shadows?"

"Nothing of the sort. A last parley, you could say. A last message."

"Well?" Delenn said nothing. She had an uncomfortable feeling she had heard a message similar to this before. Y ou would not let us show you heaven.

"It's not too late, you know. Turn on the Vorlons. They aren't your friends. They're.... a relic of the past. Foolish notions.... but dangerous for all that. Join us, listen to us, ignore us.... do whatever you like. But don't work with the Vorlons, whatever you do."