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

true warrior, one who has never feared death, one who has never thought of relinquishing the bridge to let his enemies pass, one who has never known fear of the dark places.

He took another step forward.

* * *

Like most people, Captain Walker Smith of the EAS Marten had a dream. In his case, the dream was to be the World Boxing Champion, a dream nurtured since the day his father had taken him to a fight and he had seen the legendary 'Baron' Boshears take the title for the first time. Smith had looked at his father with all the complete sincerity a five-year-old could muster and said he would hold that belt some day.

He'd never managed it, of course. Sporting events had been pretty much terminated during the Minbari War, and it was only in the last few years that they had got started again, a baseball season first, then some athletic tournaments. They were working on bringing boxing back, but it didn't matter. Smith was an entirely different person now, and in his own way he was fighting just as hard as he would have in the ring, but against a completely different opponent.

He rubbed at his eyes. He hadn't slept well last night. Actually, he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of decent nights' sleep he'd ever had on this ship. Oh, the Marten was a damned fine battleship, fast, strong, packing a hell of a punch, but it was a nice place to visit, not to live in.

Something about the ship bugged him. Something just felt.... wrong. Still, he supposed he was lucky he was actually in charge of something like this. The Marten had been cutting-edge until the Dark Thunder and the De'Molay had rolled off the production lines. He remembered drunkenly teasing Captain Barns about his new promotion, while Barns was still sitting around flying a desk. Barns had simply shrugged, and said he could wait. Looked like it had been worth the wait for him as well.

Smith did not envy him. Reports had it that the Dark Thunder contained more Shadowtech than the Marten, the Corinthian and the Morningstar put together. He did not want to imagine what it would be like inside such a ship.

'Captain,' said one of the techs, interrupting his reverie. This was just a routine patrol, and nothing interesting had happened for days. It was a political thing really, help to protect Beta Durani as a visible sign to the colonists there that R'Gov hadn't forgotten them, and that the area was perfectly safe for more industry and businesses et cetera et cetera.

The Marten was far from the only protection Beta Durani had. A Shadow squadron could be here in less than ten seconds if anything hostile showed up. Okay, make that twenty seconds. But the Marten was a visible presence to reassure people, and it was crewed by humans, brave soldiers giving their lives for others and so on....

'Yeah? What is it?'

'One of our hyperspace probes has just been destroyed. No, make that two.'

'What? Collision with debris, you think?'

'No.... I don't think so. One of them managed to get a partial signal out before it was hit. On screen now.'

The silhouette was less than clear, but it seemed to be of a ship, a medium-class vessel about a quarter of the size of the Marten, perhaps a little smaller. It was a shape Smith didn't recognise.

'Not very clear,' he said, shifting the angle of the image.

'No,' admitted the tech. 'Maybe it is debris after all.'

'No. Which Starfury squadron is out at the moment?'

'Alpha.'

'Good. Better prep squadrons Omega and Lambda as well. We might need them.' He sat back in his seat, pondering to himself. Then the tech spoke up again.

'Captain, jump points opening. Lots of them!'

Smith breathed out slowly. Just like being in the ring. The same rules applied. Keep your guard up, hit him when he wasn't looking, in places he wasn't blocking. Bide your time, and don't make any stupid mistakes.

The only difference here was all the other lives he held in his hand.

'Battle stations,' he said.

* * *

The roar of beating wings filled his ears. The brilliance of its light seared his eyes. The fury in its voice cried at him.

There was a rush of air as the Vorlon seraph swept down on Sinoval. He held Stormbringer ready, and managed to duck just as it passed him. With an effortless motion the Vorlon's sword of air and light drew a bloody line across his arm. Then, glorying in its triumph, it soared up into the heights of the room, wings beating slowly, mirror eyes gazing on everything it saw.

It knew the Soul Hunters were here. It could not fail to know that, but in its arrogance it assumed they were no threat to him.

And they were not, at least not in any way it could foresee. Their purpose here was three-fold; to channel the energy from Cathedral that had shattered the encounter suit, to further manipulate that energy to prevent the Vorlon escaping, and to seize its soul when it died.

Slowly at first, but gathering more speed and power, the Vorlon angel, the Vorlon seraph, ducked and began to dive down. Sinoval threw himself aside, wincing as the hard stone floor bruised his flesh. He rolled and leapt to his feet, moving nearer and nearer to the Starfire Wheel.

Once more the Vorlon soared towards the ceiling. It hovered there, radiating its glory on those beneath it.

Sinoval wondered idly if the Soul Hunters saw something different in its facade. To him it had taken the form of one of the ancient Gods of war, from the time many thousands of years before Valen. The warriors had called upon the aid of the Seraphim against their enemies, and sometimes that aid had come.

A greater anger burned within Sinoval. How long had they been manipulating his people? For just how long had they been Gods and angels and heroes to the Minbari? They claimed to have ascended to the galaxy when the Minbari were still crawling beneath rocks.

The Vorlon plummeted, the air rushing around its form. This was the time. Sinoval braced himself, looking directly into the mirror eyes of the angel. He could see himself there, a warrior standing firm against the assault of his enemies.

The Vorlon's sword pierced his shoulder at the same moment Stormbringer tore into its arm. Sinoval felt an agonising pain and he stumbled, crying out as the sword was pulled out of his flesh, spilling his own burning blood with it. The Vorlon itself seemed to be unharmed.

Sinoval knew better. This was not their natural form, and it could not maintain it for long. This was not their natural environment, and with the encounter suit destroyed it would have no way to replenish the energy expended in this facade. The angel might be a mere creation of light and air and mirrors, but somewhere beneath it there was a real, living, breathing creature. Anything that lived could be killed.

Once more the Vorlon rose to the ceiling, readying itself for another charge. It seemed to be flying a little slower than before. Was it hurt? Tired? Drained? Stormbringer was forged with Sinoval's soul, augmented by the subtle influences of the Well of Souls. It could hurt the Vorlon.

There. The Vorlon's wingspan had encroached on the area of the Starfire Wheel. Sinoval smiled, and willed it to open.

The green light crackled in the air as it appeared. There was a sound of burning and a smell such as Sinoval had never encountered before. The Vorlon fell, its wing beginning to collapse. The wings were only constructs of light and air, but the real creature.... was it growing too tired to maintain them?

The Vorlon twisted as it fell, its sword seeming to grow longer and sharper. Sinoval tried to bring Stormbringer up, but he was too late, and only managed to slow the thrust.

The sword ripped into his side, tearing flesh and muscle. Sinoval stumbled, nearly falling. His blood was boiling, burning his flesh, searing his clothes. The Vorlon's sword was burning him, his flesh, his blood, his soul.