Гэрет Уильямс - Темное, кривое зеркало. Том 5 - Средь звезд, подобно гигантам

Third , vol. 3, 2262: The Missing Year. E d: S. Barringer, G. Boshears, A. E.

Clements, D. G. Goldingay & M. G. Kerr.

It had taken time to get this far, and he knew it would take much more time to get further, but the one thing he knew was that he had plenty of time. He might not have his freedom any more, but then he had had precious little of that in his life anyway.

He did have one other thing as well as time, and that was anger.

He could hear them all, his children, his brethren. There were no divisions between human and alien now, no boundaries at all. They were all his people, the special, the chosen, the unique.

The telepaths. The telekinetics. The empaths.

All of them were his people.

And they were all in pain.

He had woken from a very long and painful sleep, and all he had been able to see was the light. It had filled everything, from his mind to his vision to his perceptions to his horizons. It was beautiful and terrifying at the same time, and he had wanted to immerse himself in it while being utterly repelled by it. It was everything he had ever dreamed of: pure, ultimate telepathic power, a melding of minds from across the galaxy.

But it was also wrong. The minds were in pain, and they were trapped. And so he had pulled himself free.

Sometimes, although how often he could not be sure, forces came through. Like the pull of gravity or magnetism, he was forced in one direction as a rush of mental power swept through him. It drained dry everything that he was, and focussed it, and sent it on to the next person, whose scream joined in with the others.

The first thing he had learned was not to scream.

The second thing had taken longer to learn, longer to remember.

Some of these were his people, he knew that. People he had known. People he had loved. They were all people. Human or alien, they were all people. Each scream, each spark of light, each one was a living mind.

Every one had an identity. Most of them simply could not remember theirs. The rush of memories and thoughts and power had scoured everything away. Many no longer even knew that they were individuals at all, just that they were part of a beautiful, terrifying whole.

But they weren't, or at least, not like this. A whole like this had to be voluntary. This was slavery, this was worse than slavery, worse than the gloves and the badge and the frightened looks.

When all of these realisations clicked together as one in his mind, he remembered his name.

"I am Alfred Bester," he said aloud.

That was only the beginning.

Z'ha'dum had always been a world feared and hated among those of the younger races who knew of its existence. Minbari legends spoke of Valen's assault on Z'ha'dum, causing the more reckless of the young warriors to dream of storming it themselves, but the other Minbari regarded it with rightful suspicion. A few of the learned Narn holy men and scholars were aware of the planet, and they treated it as an almost mythical Hell.

Even with the Shadow War over, Z'ha'dum continued to exert its mystical spell on the younger races. The Shadows had abandoned their homeworld, it was true, but there were many rumours about things they might have left behind. Minbari spoke of holy places there, such as where Marrain and Parlonn fought their final duel, or the place where Valen first stepped on its surface. Whispers of hidden treasure, of vast, powerful caches of technology, of long — forgotten weaponry and sinister guardians.

Any potential treasure — hunters were foiled, however. The Vorlon fleet completely blockaded the planet, refusing to allow anyone or anything to enter or leave the system. This only added to the rumours of course, and there were some reckless enough to try anything. Many people speculated about what kept the Vorlons there, about what they were guarding or looking for or hiding.

All the speculations were dead wrong.

GOLDINGAY, D. G. (2293) Stalkers on the Rim. Chapter 4 of The Rise and Fall of

the United Alliance, the End of the Second Age and the Beginning of the

Third , vol. 3, 2262: The Missing Year. E d: S. Barringer, G. Boshears, A. E.

Clements, D. G. Goldingay & M. G. Kerr.

It was a world of mysteries, of enigmatic power and lost wonders. It was a world where the Gods of old had walked and lived and thrived, and created dark technologies. The forges of great Thrakandar were now silent, shut down forever. The grim temples where the Priests of the Fallen Midnight had raised their souls in prayer now heard nothing but the wind. The sanctum of the Drakh magi was abandoned and forgotten.

The Gods of Darkness and Terror had left Z'ha'dum. They had been defeated, cast down and exiled. It fell to the Gods of Light and Beauty to claim the dead world and see that its terrors never again threatened the galaxy.

And in the most ancient and holy site on Z'ha'dum, where the Pale and Silent King alone had stepped, the Eldest being in the galaxy stood and watched.

He watched as the Vorlons purged the world of all that the Shadows had left behind. He watched as they desecrated the Temples of Midnight, as they shattered the forges at Thrakandar, as they tunnelled deep into the bowels of the world, looking always for secrets hidden and forgotten.

The Shadows had taken much with them as they left, but not even a race as old and powerful as they could remember everything. In the countless millennia of their history, they had created innumerable abominations and terrors and monstrosities. And they had forgotten many of them.

But He remembered. Lorien remembered.

One by one, slowly, the Vorlons found these forgotten instruments of destruction and devastation. One by one, they took them away to safety.

And one by one, slowly, they spread out into the galaxy, seeking what the Shadows had left behind.

On their departure, the Shadows had offered their vassal races the chance to come with them, to experience the universe beyond the Rim. Many had accepted and gone, but a few had stayed, and it was these that the Vorlons hunted.

The Zarqheba had returned to their asteroid homes, their great wings carrying them through space as they had many millennia ago. Lorien was one of the few who remembered their cities of gold and splendour, before they had collapsed in fire and fury. The Zarqheba would never again know their former intelligence and beauty. Now they were little better than animals, but now at least they were free. The Vorlons were hunting them, but they knew how to hide. Lorien supposed they would escape.

The Zener had scattered. Some had gone with their Dark Masters, others had stayed. They the Vorlons wanted most of all, for it was they who had crafted the weapons of biotechnology and chemical warfare that the Shadows had used so effectively. Some had been caught, some had been killed, but some remained free.

The Streib had retreated. Never truly a vassal race of the Shadows, they had simply taken advantage of the chaos they brought. That was enough for them to be hunted and pursued. Their ships no longer raided, no longer hunted. They settled in their homeworld and hid.

The byakheeshaggai were all dead, the last one slain by the Vorlons on Centauri Prime. None remained, here or beyond the Rim.

There were others of course. The Z'shailyl, the Moradiin, the Faceless. Lorien watched them all, just as He watched everything else that transpired in the galaxy. He watched the building of Babylon 5. He watched the Drazi fall and be conquered. He watched peace and order come at last to the Tuchanq. He watched the others, the last survivors of races almost as old as His, move at last, returning to attend to the fate of the galaxy after so long in silence. He watched Sebastian awake and walk forth on his mission.