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

"Keep believing that…. and maybe…. may…. be…."

She fell silent, and did not speak again until she arrived back on Babylon 4, almost exactly at the spot where she had ambushed and captured Sheridan. The Narn was waiting there for her, as were Valen and Zathras.

"I surrender," she said quietly. "I'm turning myself over to you."

"Told you," said Zathras happily. "Zathras knows best. Oh yes. People should listen to Zathras more. Zathras knows what Zathras is saying."

* * *

A ruined ship was floating aimlessly, just one pile of debris among so many, just one more mark of the lost and the damned in this battle. In the remains of what had once been the bridge of the EAS Parmenion there was a body, the body of one who had once been the greatest hope of his people.

Captain John Sheridan was trapped between life and death. He was not breathing.

There was a sudden and brilliant flare of light, the very last act of a dying angel.

And then there was silence once more.

* * *

"He is not dead," she said softly. "I can feel it. I know. He is not dead."

Commander David Corwin nodded once, briefly. He wanted to believe her, even if he was not sure he could. No one could have survived that, could they? If anyone could, it would be the Captain.

"He…. is not dead."

Delenn was not crying.

"We will find him."

Corwin nodded again. "Yes," he said. "Yes, we'll find him."

* * *

He stood alone, as he always would from now on. Everything that had once been a part of him was gone. Jeffrey Sinclair was gone. His future was gone. From now until his death, he would always be Valen.

They had arrived in the past safely, and had found two Vorlon cruisers waiting for them. The Vorlons had come aboard, and formally introduced themselves to him. He knew one of them. It was Kosh, whose life essence was now finally fading with the temporal rift. But that was a thousand years in the future.

I will not be your puppet, he thought to himself as he looked at his new companions. But I will do what is ordained. I will end this war, and build peace here. It might not last forever, but a thousand years might just about be enough.

What had happened at Epsilon 3? Who had survived? What would become of Kazomi 7 with its ray of hope, and of Delenn, and Sheridan, and poor, doomed Primarch Sinoval?

He would never know.

After their arrival Zathras had spent a lot of time messing around with the ion engines. The first meeting with the Minbari was a fair distance away in normal space. It had taken the station some hours to get to the required area, and Zathras spent the whole journey tutting, clicking and muttering to himself.

And now he was waiting. The first Minbari ship had chanced upon the station, and its occupants were coming aboard. Two warrior caste of course, leaders of different clans, warring clans that he would eventually unite. The greatest, proudest, strongest warriors of this age.

And he would destroy them both.

Both of them came into view, looking bemused, and more than a touch angry. Each was only barely tolerating the other's presence. He could see them clearly now, just as he could see them later. Their fight back to back on the blood-stained sands of Iwojim, ending with the two mortal enemies clasping hands astride an ocean of the dead.

Enemies now, soon to be friends, and later, to be traitors.

But their deaths would not be in vain, neither of them. He could see that now. It was all part of a vast tapestry, a multitude of threads that led back to the present, and the future, and beyond….

Parlonn's betrayal to the Shadows, brought about by rational reasoning and an acceptance of their cause, was necessary to convince Marrain to ally with them, an alliance wrought out of jealousy and envy. And that was necessary for one man who would arise a thousand years in the future, and begin a destiny that would affect the next thousand years.

Threads within webs, creating an infinite tapestry, of which he was only the smallest of parts.

"I welcome you," he said, and they started. Marrain raised his hand to his weapon. "And present this place to you as a gift."

They stood still, looking at the Gods of beauty at his side, each realising that something very special had just happened. They could feel the course of history turning beneath their feet. Neither had any idea of where it would take them, or that the salvation of their people would mean the damnation of their souls.

"I am called Valen," he said, "and we have much work ahead of us."

Gareth D. Williams

From the Ashes

The Minbari have an old saying: 'There can be no peace with the Shadow'. But what if there could be? How much would peace be worth, and what would it cost? And who would pay?

Chapter 1

'There can be no peace with the Shadow.' An old saying now, almost proverbial, used mainly by members of the warrior caste when placed in a situation which, for them, admits of only one course of action. The saying however is incorrect. There were numerous attempts at peace during the Shadow War. They all failed, but that does not mean that we can pass them off as anomalies. Each in its own way was significant.

The closest attempt at a settlement of sorts came a few years after we, the Minbari, had entered the war. At the time we knew very little about the circumstances in which we found ourselves. We had been in tentative contact with other alien races for some years, most notably the Ikarrans, the Tak'cha and the Markab. Agreements had been made with these races, slow and cautious, tentative at first, when emissaries from the Markab had arrived at our capital, claiming that they were under attack by a strange alien race who gave no reason for these incursions. None of our treaties included mutual defence clauses, but we were prepared to assist. Our warrior caste was not prominent at the time, but each of their clans was anxious to prove its mettle. The religious caste contemplated diplomacy, but the leaders of at least three of the clans were in favour of military action on behalf of the Markab. They won out, in the end.

Our first few engagements with this…. Enemy did not go well, however. Many ships were destroyed, and the warrior caste was thrown into disarray. Warleader Hantenn of the Wind Swords clan committed ritual suicide to atone for his rashness, and the militaristic fervour died down. Matters were confused for many months afterwards, especially as the Ikarrans were invaded soon after Hantenn's death. Their invaders were not the same race as the Enemy, but a different one we did not know. They called themselves the Streibs.

The Ikarrans requested aid from us, aid that we had to refuse. Our generals were smarting from the losses they had sustained defending the Markab and unwilling to take any more such risks for a cause that was not ours. We lost all contact with their area of space about three years after they were invaded. We did not learn of the tragic solution they had found until it was too late.

Not long after that the attacks resumed, against both the Markab and the Tak'cha. The Tak'cha, who were never much given to diplomacy at the best of times, began intensifying their military programme. They spoke enigmatically of a race called the Vorlons, whom they believed to be messengers from their Gods. When pressed, however, no living Tak'cha could recall ever having seen a Vorlon.

The entire situation was growing more and more tense, and then, suddenly and strangely, a visitor came to our leaders of both clan and fane. He was an alien of a race we had never seen before. He called himself Shryne, and asked each leader a simple question. 'What do you want?' He spoke each of our dialects perfectly, he knew all our customs, and once he had heard the answers he smiled, bowed and left. Later, approximately half the clan and fane leaders, the majority from the warrior caste, were invited to a meeting in neutral territory. There they met with this Shryne and others of his race, and he made grandiose promises of aid. We would be strong, he said. We would have the power to achieve all that we desired.

All that we had to give in return was the promise of a simple favour. The Warleaders of the Star Riders, Moon Shields and Night Walkers accepted Shryne's offer. The new Warleader of the Wind Swords, full of pride, did likewise. Shuzen of the Fire Wings displayed honour above ambition, and refused. The religious caste were split, but most turned down the offer.

Within three months, all who had turned Shryne down were killed. Accident, disease, poison, assassination. The clans were soon at war.

It was then that the Vorlons arrived. They convinced our generals where the real enemy lay, and we went to war alongside the Markab and the Tak'cha, against the race we now called the Shadows. Shryne, whom the Vorlons referred to as a Ragg'hia, a race that served the Shadows, tried to call another meeting for peace with our leaders. He was captured and executed, and from that moment on the saying 'There can be no peace with the Shadow' began to be heard. Despite this, some of our more pacifist religious leaders still pushed for peace. Many went to the Shadows' homeworld, a grim, dark world called Z'ha'dum. When we took the place we found them there, changed irrevocably, beyond our capacity to undo.

It was not long after Shryne's death that Valen came to us…. and we were united. And from that point on, there truly was no peace with the Shadow.

Excerpts from The First Footsteps To The Stars: A History of Minbari Space Travel, by Sech Turval of the Temple of Tuzanor, published in the Earth Year 2232.

* * *

There was nothing but death where once there had been hope. Everything was gone, scattered to the four winds.

Epsilon 3 was destroyed, torn apart by the stress of the Great Machine. Somewhere, in pieces, amongst a sea of rock and metal and machinery a millennium old, lay the body of Michael Garibaldi. Just one of the many who had died at the Battle of the Third Line.

A great many ships lay in ruins, sacrificed to preserve the future and the past. Shadow ships were dead there also, their wordless screams silenced at last.

The temporal rift was closed, the past forever the past now. The Vorlon Kosh had sacrificed himself to ensure it fulfilled its purpose, returning the great hero Valen where he belonged.

And somewhere, amidst all the death and the carnage and the chunks of floating metal, shuttles moved cautiously, accompanied by beings in space suits, moving through the devastation, seeking survivors, hoping against hope that someone might still be alive.

It had only been a few hours since the battle's end. It was possible that some sections of the ships were still pressurised, possible that people still lived, trapped and alone in a dead prison.

But more than that, they were searching for a body, the body of one among so many who were believed to be dead.

Captain John Sheridan. He was there…. somewhere.

* * *

"He is not dead."

Commander David Corwin sighed and rubbed at his eyes. How long had it been since he had last slept? He had grabbed a quick three or four hours after the attack by Clark's forces, during the preparation of the station. But he had awoken from that feeling just as tired as he had been before.

With Mary, the night Bester's recall signal had been given. How long ago had that been? Three days or so…. Maybe a little longer. He couldn't tell any more. But then, the woman with him could not have slept much either. Of course, she wasn't human…. well, not entirely, and for all he knew she did not need to sleep.

But still….

"He is not dead."

Corwin gave her credit. She almost sounded as if she believed the words she was saying. He was sure he did not. The Captain…. had known what would happen. He had chosen to stay on the bridge of the Parmenion. He had chosen to order the evacuation of his crew, and to give the order to launch a ramming action.

In some way, he had wanted to die.

"He is not dead."

"I'm sorry, Delenn," he said, surprised by how hoarse his voice sounded. He was thirsty. "There are people out looking, but…. No one could have survived that, Delenn. The ship was destroyed, completely wrecked. Delenn…."

She raised her head and looked at him. He was trapped by her piercing eyes, and he contemplated her for a minute. He had never really been comfortable around the former Satai Delenn, but he could see just what it was about her that made her able to rule dynasties, to lead leaders, and to capture the heart of the great Starkiller.

Corwin admitted he did owe her slightly. She had once helped the Captain free himself from a difficult situation, at Corwin's request. He supposed he might have helped push them together by asking that of her, and he was not entirely sure how he felt about that.

Still, the Captain had been happy these last few months. That was something, at least.

"A part of the bridge could still be pressurised. You said yourself that communications on the Parmenion were down before the…. end. He could still be alive, trapped in a pressurised section of the ship, unable to alert us to his position." She was speaking calmly and rationally, explaining each point precisely. He did not want to listen. He had run over every argument he could think of, and he could still not believe anything other than the fact that Captain John Sheridan was dead.

"Delenn," he said, interrupting her. "I want him to be alive just as much as you do…. but…. it's impossible."

"Nothing is impossible," she snapped, her voice firm. She sounded angry. "Nothing is impossible while there is hope, and faith. We have a saying, one John heard and understood. Faith manages, Commander. Faith manages."

"It hasn't done a very good job for me so far," he muttered angrily, but then he sighed. "I'm sorry, Delenn. I didn't mean that."

"No, Commander. It is I who should be sorry. John…. liked you a great deal. He respected you."

Corwin nodded and looked around, trying to avoid the lure of those green eyes. The quarters were not very luxurious, but then Drazi ones never were. They were on board the Drazi Sunhawk Stra'Kath, one of the few ships to remain in the Epsilon Eridani area. Most of the fleet that had fought in the Battle had gone back to Kazomi 7, for repairs and to off-load the wounded.

Captain Smith had taken his Babylon there and was now in detention, awaiting the decision on his fate. Susan was also there, and Corwin definitely did not want to think about her. So was Mary, and…. and he had something to ask her. He had been trying to build up the courage for a long while, but the battle had sharpened his focus. He would ask her….