1 Author Note: Set just after Phoenix Rising
"There are always choices. When we say there is no choice, we have already chosen."
It was quiet.
He was grateful for that, at least. At least, it was something to be grateful for.
Of course there were mundanes on the transport, but so few he occasionally forgot to notice the hushed whisper at the back of his mind, the incoherent mumblings of the dozen or so minds that were in this section of the ship that was taking him back to Earth.
But there were no telepaths.
His had sent his bloodhounds back on the Psi-Corps transport, but he had wanted to be alone, amongst the mundanes. He wanted to be reminded of their suspicion, their hatred, their overwhelming fear. He wanted fresh wounds and fresh anger.
Because anger could drown out sorrow, maybe...if it was strong enough, if he listened to their thoughts, and heard what they were thinking about him. About his badge, his uniform, his people. Heard the unconscious thoughts, the vile insults, the dirty jokes. Heard them hate.
Mundanes hate telepaths.
It was a fact of life that he had been introduced to at a very young age. But he had not been fighting the mundanes, it was not their fear and hate that he had heard on the station.
The glimpse of fire he had caught as he fled the bay. The inferno consuming flesh and body and...life. He had caught a few of the final words, had heard minds scream out in fear, in pain at the searing of their flesh. Then nothing, nothing left but ashes.
And memories. He recognised them all, a few from personal acquaintance, most from their files detailing family, friends, work, crimes, education: One had failed to gain a general grade in Minbari when he couldn't turn up for the exam when he caught a fever. Another had managed to evade the Corps for months, rather inventively, by disguising herself as a Centauri. Lives that were gone in an instant, because of a mistake.
No.
He shook himself mentally. That was wrong, he had tried to save them. The mundanes were the ones who had built up the powder keg, with their mistrust and their hypocrisy.
It was here too, in the minds around him, the same feelings. Here, on Earth, on Proxima, everywhere. It would not change.
But the longer it went on, the greater the danger of another inferno engulfing his people.
He had access to the news here, and had seen the latest report from ISN informing the public about the bombing of the Psi-Corp headquarters. How many more of his people had died in that explosion? He digested the information numbly, laying it aside to be analysed at another time. Calmly, he tried to analyse who was responsible, who had the resources and who get someone to act on Earth that quickly. The answer that presented itself was unpleasant, and he wondered if he had made an error in judgement.
And then there were the words left at the crime scene:
2 Remember Byron
He would remember. He would remember the killing and the bloodshed and the lives lost when a telepath had trusted in mundanes.
3 Remember Byron
He would remember the inability of the mundanes to even help their own kind.
4 Remember Byron
He would remember the treachery.
5 Remember Byron
The pointless self-sacrifice
6 Remember Byron
And hurt, when he lost a protégé and...friend.
+++
It was even quieter in his office on Mars. A rusty windswept view, overwhelmed by red could be seen from the window: the inhospitable natural state of his home, containing all the fearsome beauty of nature.
On his desk, there was no beauty, just the shining gleam of metal topped by a sheaf of papers: Forms to be filled out on the casualties. Deaths that were to become names, neatly written, checked and filed away for future reference.
"There are always choices. When we say there is no choice, we have already chosen."
It was quiet.
He was grateful for that, at least. At least, it was something to be grateful for.
Of course there were mundanes on the transport, but so few he occasionally forgot to notice the hushed whisper at the back of his mind, the incoherent mumblings of the dozen or so minds that were in this section of the ship that was taking him back to Earth.
But there were no telepaths.
His had sent his bloodhounds back on the Psi-Corps transport, but he had wanted to be alone, amongst the mundanes. He wanted to be reminded of their suspicion, their hatred, their overwhelming fear. He wanted fresh wounds and fresh anger.
Because anger could drown out sorrow, maybe...if it was strong enough, if he listened to their thoughts, and heard what they were thinking about him. About his badge, his uniform, his people. Heard the unconscious thoughts, the vile insults, the dirty jokes. Heard them hate.
Mundanes hate telepaths.
It was a fact of life that he had been introduced to at a very young age. But he had not been fighting the mundanes, it was not their fear and hate that he had heard on the station.
The glimpse of fire he had caught as he fled the bay. The inferno consuming flesh and body and...life. He had caught a few of the final words, had heard minds scream out in fear, in pain at the searing of their flesh. Then nothing, nothing left but ashes.
And memories. He recognised them all, a few from personal acquaintance, most from their files detailing family, friends, work, crimes, education: One had failed to gain a general grade in Minbari when he couldn't turn up for the exam when he caught a fever. Another had managed to evade the Corps for months, rather inventively, by disguising herself as a Centauri. Lives that were gone in an instant, because of a mistake.
No.
He shook himself mentally. That was wrong, he had tried to save them. The mundanes were the ones who had built up the powder keg, with their mistrust and their hypocrisy.
It was here too, in the minds around him, the same feelings. Here, on Earth, on Proxima, everywhere. It would not change.
But the longer it went on, the greater the danger of another inferno engulfing his people.
He had access to the news here, and had seen the latest report from ISN informing the public about the bombing of the Psi-Corp headquarters. How many more of his people had died in that explosion? He digested the information numbly, laying it aside to be analysed at another time. Calmly, he tried to analyse who was responsible, who had the resources and who get someone to act on Earth that quickly. The answer that presented itself was unpleasant, and he wondered if he had made an error in judgement.
And then there were the words left at the crime scene:
2 Remember Byron
He would remember. He would remember the killing and the bloodshed and the lives lost when a telepath had trusted in mundanes.
3 Remember Byron
He would remember the inability of the mundanes to even help their own kind.
4 Remember Byron
He would remember the treachery.
5 Remember Byron
The pointless self-sacrifice
6 Remember Byron
And hurt, when he lost a protégé and...friend.
+++
It was even quieter in his office on Mars. A rusty windswept view, overwhelmed by red could be seen from the window: the inhospitable natural state of his home, containing all the fearsome beauty of nature.
On his desk, there was no beauty, just the shining gleam of metal topped by a sheaf of papers: Forms to be filled out on the casualties. Deaths that were to become names, neatly written, checked and filed away for future reference.