A Dark, Distorted Mirror. Volume 4. A Future, Born in Pain

* * *

Death. There was a time when Sinoval would have liked nothing better than to die in battle, surrounded by an army of his enemies, his weapon raised high, his ancestors watching. He had believed he had been born into the wrong time. He belonged in the old days, the days before Valen. He could have been a warlord, a general, a hero. Instead, he tried to restore something of the old days to the new days.

And now he realised just how wrong that was.

He swivelled on the balls of his feet and darted back out of reach of a thrust. One of his attackers was trying to creep up behind him, another to flank his other side, while the other two, including Tirivail, came at him from the front. They were all good, all well–trained and skilled.

Had there been nine, as he had foreseen, he would probably have fallen, and that had been his plan. This whole fight did not matter. He was nothing but a distraction. He had intended to draw Sonovar and his allies away to let Marrain talk to the Tak'cha. Then Sonovar's military might would collapse, and this would be as it always should have been: Minbari against Minbari.

Stormbringer moved with a sentience of its own, a weapon crafted to reflect its bearer, a personification of the dark side of Sinoval's own personality. His dark side now isolated and drawn apart, Stormbringer moved fluidly and smoothly.

One of his attackers went down, his pike smashed aside. He was not dead. Sinoval would not kill his own. Not again.

Minbari did things in threes. Sinoval had killed his own kind twice: Shakiri and Sherann. He would not do so a third time.

There was a burst of pain in his side, and he shifted his bearing to confront the one who had flanked him. In the darkness neither of them could see the other, but Sinoval had a lifetime's instinct moving him. There were noises and smells and.... a sense of where his attackers were. Two blows and the warrior fell. Spinning and leaping back, Sinoval narrowly dodged a clever thrust by one of the remaining attackers. Not Tirivail - it was the young warrior, Rastenn.

As part of his training, Sinoval had been blindfolded and forced to fight against foes he could not see. Minbari had notoriously poor dark vision, but warriors were trained to compensate. They should not fear the dark after all, for they had sworn to follow Valen into it.

Stormbringer parried Rastenn's attack and Sinoval darted in on the offensive. A savage blow against the middle of Rastenn's pike was followed by another, and another. The third tore it from Rastenn's hands, and the follow–up sent him down.

There was an explosion in the small of Sinoval's back and he fell. Tirivail's foot descended on his hand, and he lost his grasp on his blade. Stormbringer was kicked clear.

There was a column of light, and Tirivail became visible above him. The bodies of Rastenn and the other two could be seen also. None of them was dead.

Tirivail rested her pike on Sinoval's throat. His eyes met hers.

* * *

President William Morgan Clark is dead, his body torn apart by the explosive emergence of the alien that has lived within him for over two years. For two years he has been guided, helped and protected by the Vorlons, fulfilling their work under the noses of his Government.

His last work is done. Now he can rest, although his dying wish was to be able to observe the aftermath of his actions. Not enough is left of his head to be sure, but there had been a smile on his face as he died.

They all thought him a nonentity, a nothing. Now they would know otherwise. All their plans had been sent tumbling down around their ears.

There were a number of bodies in the room with him. There was also a large hole where one body should be. Of Ambassador David Sheridan, there was no sign.

But from one of the bodies there was a hint of movement. Welles' fingers twitched briefly, and his eyes opened.

Far above his head the satellites of the Proxima 3 defence grid began to turn slowly and inexorably towards the planet they had been created to defend, and towards all the helpless people cowering there.

Somewhere, in whatever realm his soul has ascended to, President William Morgan Clark is laughing.

* * *

The Agamemnon, the Dark Star 3, under Captain David Corwin, moved forward, pursuing the withdrawing Shadow ships.

He moved nearer and nearer to Proxima 3.

The unwitting lives of millions of humans moved with him.

Chapter 6

Humanity is doomed. The sins of the past have caught up with the present as once again alien ships appear in the skies above the world of humanity. There are still many who remember the fate of Earth, still many who fear.

That fear is justified, but misplaced.

The alien ships in the skies above Proxima are humanity's saviours, or they would be. And those who have doomed humanity are those they had trusted, even loved. A coalition of human and alien has moved, acting silently, behind shadows, for years.

And now their plans are realised. In a secure bunker beneath the ruined remains of the Edgars Building, two men wait, safe in the knowledge that they will survive the firestorm soon to engulf Proxima 3. There is another man there, a man whose mind has been filled with a great, unholy light. All he can do is scream.

There is another secret room where lies the torn body of the man who initiated this holocaust. President William Clark died with a smile on his face.

But where are humanity's saviours, the cry arises. They are here, hidden perhaps, in unlikely places, but they are here.

There is a man standing silently on the bridge of his dead ship, paralysed by an unknown force, a scream that has torn many of the Saint–Germain's systems to shreds. For years he has been reviled as a coward, even as a traitor.

'Captain!' cried a voice. 'We've got word. Engines are back on line.'

'What about the others?'

'We still can't get through to the Dark Thunder. Damage to the De'Molay seems almost total, but they're working hard on the Morningstar.'

'It's just us, then.'

'Yes.... looks that way.'

'What about weapons?'

'That's a no. Well, not yet anyway.'

'Where are the attacking ships?'

'Some are still here, but most have moved on to Proxima. Our allies are pulling back.'

'Get us to the planet, as fast as possible.'

'But, Captain....' The Saint–Germain has no weapons, the hull integrity is almost nothing, the enhanced engines are out of commission. It was designed for scouting and reconnaissance, not as a battleship.

'I know, but Proxima Three has nothing between the Alliance fleet and all those people but the defence grid. And us. We're going.'

Such is the nature of heroism. The man who has been called a coward for over a decade, Captain Francis Xavier DeClercq, brings his ship to the defence of his world.

Another ship is already there. Captain David Corwin looks at the defence grid beginning to activate, beginning to turn inwards, and his eyes widen.