"No!" she cried. "You promised...."
They were there. Huge figures, massively taller than her. Their faces were twisted and monstrous, leering at her. They all held the syringes in their gloved hands. The badges on their chests seemed to glow at her.
"Let me," said another voice, and she cried out. It was her. Lyta Alexander. She had.... burned her mind. She had been there when Marcus had died. Marcus had loved her.
"Help me!" she cried, tears in her eyes. "You promised I'd be safe! Marcus, help me!"
"Marcus can't help you," said Lyta. "He's with me now. You killed him, remember."
"No! I didn't mean to."
"But you did. He doesn't love you any more. He's with me."
"Help me!" she cried again. "Someone help me!"
There was a brilliant flash of light, bright and dazzling. All the Psi Cops screamed and turned away. Lyta hissed, and fell. An instant later, they were all gone.
"Who are you?" said a voice she did not recognise. "What do you want?" She stiffened as she heard that question. "Why are you here? Why did you seek me out?"
"Who are you?" she asked softly.
"A friend," said the voice. It sounded.... old, and full of wisdom. It reminded her of her great-grandfather, who had died when she was a little girl. He had known everything, in her childish eyes. This voice sounded so much like him. "I heard your pain. You have been here before, haven't you? I.... remember."
"I'm Susan," she said softly.
"Yes," the voice said with satisfaction. "Of course you are. You are not of them, are you?"
"Them?"
"The Shadows."
"No. I don't think so. I used to be, but...."
"Ah. I see. Come and find me, Susan. Bring your friends. There are others here who have bad dreams. Dreams are the wishes our souls make when we are dead to the world. They are.... images of things long lost, and things never to be, and things we fear. I have seen all their dreams.
"Bring them to me. It will be good to have someone to speak to, after so long."
"Where are you?"
"I am here. You will know where to go."
"But...."
The dream ended, and Susan woke up. After shaking away the cold dust of her slumber, she suddenly realised she knew two things. First, that Lyta Alexander was coming to Z'ha'dum, and second, that she should go and talk to Delenn.
Mr. Trace was, generally speaking, a contented man. Life was good for him at the moment. He had a thriving business, very powerful friends, women throwing themselves at him, a file of all sorts of information that could prove valuable, and more money than most people could even dream of.
His earliest memory was a realisation, one day when he had been about five or so. He had looked around at the adults around him, the children who were his friends, the rundown buildings, the sheer lack of hope in everyone's eyes, and had completely understood just how stupid they all were. They lived in Sector 301, and it destroyed them. It had sucked away all their dreams, all their hopes, all their futile aspirations to be someone. They had come here, and they would never leave.
Trace had made himself two promises: first, that he would leave Sector 301, and second, that he would return, when he was powerful enough to own it.
He had been told it was possible to escape the Pit legitimately, but then he had been told it was possible to win the New Vegas lottery as well. He didn't know anyone who'd done either, and the odds of both were about the same. He had therefore set about escaping illegitimately.
Proxima was a long way from Earth, but some of the old creeds still lived here. The old gangs, the old cultures, the old ways. Mafia, Triad, Yakuza.... and others. The Thieves' Guild had a few representatives here, but Trace disliked all aliens intensely. No, better to stick with those he knew.
He had joined a small Mafia family at the age of thirteen, running errands, performing minor tasks, and proving surprisingly adept at mixing drinks. Under their tutelage he managed to get away from the Pit and up-sector. By the time the headman's only son was killed in a skirmish with some Yakuza, Trace had managed to get close to him, close enough to be named his heir.
The fall of Earth, the collapse of Orion and a bloody and brutal gang war that wiped out almost all the Yakuza and the Mafia, left him with almost everything he needed. He looked at Sector 301, he saw all the vulnerable, tired and scared people flocking there, and he smiled.
They were so stupid. None of them would ever escape, not one. He could capitalise on their lost dreams and broken hopes.
The first step of course was the legitimate return. So, he opened up a club. It was just close enough to the border with Sector 303 to be considered vaguely 'respectable'. All the money that had come into his hands with the collapse of the Mafia went on buying certain people. The entire Government was in chaos for years after Orion, and the security force in the Pit had been corrupt anyway. A few people had taken exception to Trace moving in on their territory, but examples had soon been made of them. They were all small fry anyway. Pathetically small.
It could all have come to nothing, however, without a very fortunate and surprising call that had come to him in his club one day.
His association with his mystery backer was based on a number of deals. The backer would provide him with enough money, influence and respectability to get whatever he wanted. He would provide the backer with as many telepaths as he could find, or at least news of their whereabouts. Trace would be protected from just about anyone who could threaten him, and he would make no effort to discover what happened to the telepaths once they left 301.
The arrangement had been working nicely for almost five years now. Trace had from time to time wondered just what his backer wanted with all those telepaths. He had some theories, but nothing he was sure of. To be honest, he did not really care. He knew who his backer was, and he was capable of throwing around enough money and power to buy out half of Proxima.
Trace was so close to getting what he had always wanted: respectability. He had been sounding people out about running for the Senate at the next election. There were rumours from Main Dome that the Wartime Emergency Provisions were to be relaxed, enough to start holding elections again. The local sector councils would be first. Within six months, he was betting. He could get a fair few people on there, he was sure. After that, the Senate election would follow. A year at most, he was certain.
And after that, well.... with his backer's assistance, would President Trace be too much to wish for?
A fine dream. All it took to rise in the world was perseverance, and a recognition of the sheer stupidity of others. Well, and luck, but someone or other — had it been Napoleon? — had said that everyone gets luck, both good and bad. It's the great people who know how to use it.
Trace liked the sound of that.
He reviewed the expected guests for tonight. An aide to Senator Macabee was rumoured to be bringing his new girlfriend, a couple of middle-placed execs at ISN and the first team of the Proxima Swashbucklers were meant to be along. Trace smiled, and made a mental note to let the bar staff know their drinks were on the house. He actually owned twelve percent of the Swashbucklers, and he was fairly certain of getting another ten percent or so within a few months. He'd have a majority shareholding before the end of the year.
Owner of a successful baseball team, huh? He chuckled, wondering what all his childhood friends would say if they could see him now. They'd probably curse at his luck, and say they could have made it out as well, but they'd been unlucky.
Some people never learned.
Trace headed out of his office and set off for the bar. You never knew when someone would pop in a little early, and he always liked mingling with the guests.