His fingers throbbed. He wondered if they were broken, or if there was tendon damage or something. Vicky could have told at a glance of course, but he could only make an educated guess. He had learned a great deal in seven years married to a doctor, and his near–perfect memory helped him recall a lot, but alas, he did not know everything.
"What would you think of me, I wonder?" he whispered, imagining her here. He had not done that for years, it was too painful. He had mentioned her to Bester a few years ago, and that had been the first time he had even thought about her since her death. Now that he had acknowledged her, however, it was impossible to deny her.
"Oh, Vicky," he whispered. "I'm sorry....
"I'm so sorry."
He listened very hard for a reply, but there was none.
Alone, lost, damned, she floated in a world of her own, where the only sound was her son's heart beating, the only word she knew, his name.
David....
She did not know where she was. She knew there were people around. This was a different place from where David had been killed. These were different people. They seemed.... kinder. Wary, yes, but kinder, a mix of revulsion and caring, hatred and sympathy.
One of them she thought she knew, but comprehension eluded her.
He was dead. David was dead. Her son. His heart had stopped beating. He had been changed from her son into a mass of dead cells and sucked from her body. She had felt his heart stop beating.
She didn't know who had done that to him. To her. She didn't know their names, what they looked like, who they were. Did they have children?
A vital point of understanding almost touched her, but then the sound of the heartbeat grew louder, and she slipped away, lost in a dream.
A dream, or a memory.
It was on Z'ha'dum. She and.... two other people.... She thought she knew them, but their names escaped her. She had loved one of them once, loved him very much. She had hated the other. Or maybe not hate, but.... something.
There had been caverns all around them, hot rocks and masses of rubble. Somewhere along the journey she had come upon shiny, reflective surfaces, almost like mirrors. One of her companions.... the one she had once not quite hated.... had paused, trying to think.
Something in the - mirror, if that was what it was - attracted her, and she stepped forward to look at it. She saw a reflection that was herself, and not herself. There was something in the eyes, a wealth of experiences that were not her own. This.... different her had known love, and fear, and joy, and loss, just as she had.... but different.
It had been there for only a moment, and then it had vanished.
Who was this other self? Someone who had made a different choice, days, or weeks, or years ago? Someone for whom things had gone better, or worse?
Could she have done things differently, and become that other self? Would David still be alive if she had done that? Would he even have been conceived?
She did not know. Too many questions she just could not answer. David's heartbeat was growing stronger, and for just one minute she thought she could see the people around her, thought she could name one of them.
But it slipped away, and her eyes closed.
He could not remember when he had last slept. His last meal was a far–distant memory. His last drink was.... an illusion. Simple luxuries now escaped him. A conversation about nothing. A moment with a friend. The touch of one he loved.
Captain John Sheridan remembered all these things, but had put them all aside, not without some regret. It was necessary. The fate of humanity was at stake.
There were times when he dreamed, and he recalled each and every dream with crystal clarity in the morning. He dreamed he had awakened from a deep sleep, and been unable to move. Arms, legs, fingers, neck.... all were sealed shut. He could not breathe, could not move, could not scream for help.
He had lain like that for hours, maybe years, until someone came. It was Delenn, and the smile his mouth could not give expression to showed in his eyes. She was dressed in white and gold, and she had never looked more beautiful. She gently laid her finger on his forehead, and he could move again. He could reach up and touch her.
And then he always awoke, unshed tears in his eyes.
He remembered very little of what had happened after that last, terrible moment on the bridge of the Parmenion. He remembered the burst of light as his world exploded, and he remembered waking in a hospital on Kazomi 7, unable to move. Something had happened in between, he knew, but he could not recall what. A soft whisper, a voice speaking words he could not understand.
The months after that had been a blur. Delenn had been there, and David, but he could not remember much of what they had said or done. He seemed to recall meeting his father, although whether that had been true or just a dream he did not know. Delenn had told him it was a dream.
Then he had been awakened and been able to move, and he had known what to do. Some things became.... unimportant, while others filled his vision entirely. Delenn had been at the forefront of his mind always, but she had died on a distant, dead world, callously murdered, and he had been left with nothing but revenge.
He had to free his people from the taint of the Shadows, and he had to avenge Delenn's death. He had to end this whole war, and destroy the Shadows altogether. Over three years since the Second Line. That was long enough.
But other things seemed so.... unimportant now.
"Captain," said one of his techs. He could not remember her name, if he had ever known it. "There's a message for you. It's on a top secret, coded channel, and audio–only."
"Oh? Put it through to my private channel." On an Earthforce ship he would have used an earphone and perhaps a sub–vocal microphone to keep this conversation secret. On a Dark Star, that was all unnecessary. Somehow the conversation was held entirely telepathically. He had no idea how, and nor did he care. That was one of the things that was unimportant.
--- This is Sheridan. ---
--- Good morning, or afternoon, or whatever it is where you are. --- Sheridan had a feeling this was the true voice of whoever was talking to him. Theoretically he could hear a conversation in any voice the other person chose, from a Yorkshire accent to American Deep South, but there was something natural about the formal, polite tone that made him think this was genuine.
--- Do I know you? ---
--- You probably know of me. Suffice it to say, I am a friend. ---
--- Oh? And I'm expected to believe that? --- There was a distant crackling noise, one he couldn't quite identify.
--- It is a wise man who is suspicious in times of trouble. It is a fool who disbelieves everything he is told. I am your friend. We share similar.... associates, you and I. ---
--- Where are you contacting me from? ---
--- I am on Proxima. I.... represent a group of people dissatisfied with the present administration there. We will be ready to act when your ships arrive. We may be of some assistance to you in your present campaign. ---
--- And my.... associates will support this? ---
--- Indeed they will. We have been preparing for some time. --- There was another voice speaking, trying to get his attention. He couldn't hear exact words. --- However, events here are running away with us, and we may not have much time. It may be advisable for you to conduct your assault on Proxima a little earlier than you had originally planned. ---
--- And I'm expected to trust you? For all I know this could be a trap. I don't even know your name. ---
<Help us!> Sheridan started. The voice had broken their conversation, burning with sheer terror. He could feel the desperation there, and something.... reached deep inside him.