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

"Babylon Four," Smith said softly.

Bo appeared not to have heard him. "So, Jinxo was one of the first in line for a job. He went off for some survey reports or something. I think he hung around on the Babylon for a while.... meeting pretty high-class people, you know.

"And then.... well.... the Minbari came to Orion, completely trashed the place. Jinxo was still on the Babylon when it came back to try and defend Orion, and he was one of the first guys on the ground. He got to his apartment.... and the whole building had been wrecked. His wife was dead, but the doctors managed to save the baby.... something like that, anyway. Maybe his wife lived for a few more days.... or something.

"Well, it turned out Jinxo's insurance didn't cover anything like the cost of keeping the baby in hospital, and it weren't like that were the only kid in need of treatment after Orion. His apartment weren't worth nothing any more, he wasn't going to get paid by the Government for construction work they couldn't afford, and his savings went.... pretty fast.

"So, the hospital were making threatening noises, so he took all the cash he had and went down to the Tron. He tried to borrow money off Mr. Trace, but.... well, he couldn't afford to lend him any. I'm sure he would have, if he could. He's a real fine man, as you know."

"Yeah," muttered Smith. "A real humanitarian."

"But.... I hear there are certain people at the Tron who.... go in for a bit of illegal gambling. Cards and stuff.... you get my meaning. They don't do that any more, of course. Mr. Trace found out about it, and put a stop to it all.

"But well.... Jinxo put the lot on one hand. He reckoned he'd got the perfect hand.... but one of the others beat him. He lost the lot.... ended up owing a lot of people a lot of money. Mr. Trace managed to put it right as much as possible, but well.... The hospital had to turn off the baby's machine, you see. They couldn't afford to keep it going, not with all those people starving in the streets that winter, and with all the food riots and prison riots and everything....

"So he just moved down here. Gave his name as Jinxo.... and just.... I dunno, just gave up on life, I suppose. A pity."

"Not so much of a funny story then, really," Smith said to himself. That was Sector Three-o-one, after all. Everyone here would have a similar story, he bet. A tale of lost loves and broken dreams, a dark, desolate road of forsaken happiness that ended here — in the Pit.

Only one type of person had a good life in the Pit, and that was Mr. Trace and his toadies, people who made a profit out of betraying and feeding off their fellows. Trace had his flunkies; the corrupt, the weak, the morally vacant.... and as long as he was doing fine, then nothing else mattered.

Smith began to feel a greater sense of importance. Trace had to be shut down, or at least shown what he was doing to these people here. Somebody had to do that, and it might as well be him. He might not be able to save the galaxy, but he could at least fight a battle on a smaller scale.

He was just coming to this conclusion when he felt strong hands grab the back of his shirt and drag him from his seat. He was hurled against the far wall, striking it with a force that jarred him. He tried to turn and look at his assailant, blinking away the pain.

"I told you last time," snarled an angry voice. "That's my seat. You been letting other people sit in my chair, Bo?"

Bo was cowering behind the bar. "N-No.... Mr. Drake, sir. I.... It was just.... I...."

"Ah, shut up. Get down to the cellar, or the kitchen or somethin'. That way you can tell the truth to the Security lot when you say you didn't see nothing. No.... better yet, tell them this guy here started it, and I were just defendin' myself."

"S.... started what, Nelson? What are you going to do?"

The thick, heavy-set man reached into his jacket and pulled out a long, wickedly-sharp knife. "This guy here has been causing problems for Mr. Trace. He's been troubling our overworked security forces, and he just doesn't get the three-o-one ethos here. You work with Mr. Trace, and everything's fine. You annoy Mr. Trace.... and things get a very long way from fine."

Smith shook his head and looked up. Nelson Drake was advancing on him.

"We got to set an example for the others in three-o-one, you see," he was saying. "We all got to work together, and that means knowing who's boss. Bad luck for you, mate.... you won't get to learn from your mistake."

The Babylon headed for Z'ha'dum.

On the bridge sat its captain, the legendary John Sheridan, the Starkiller. He was silent, waiting, thinking about a dead world, a red world, a barren and twisted world at the Rim of known space.

A world where the one person he loved most in all the galaxy could be found.

His second, Commander Corwin, was watching him carefully. He was still finding it hard to credit that the Captain was able to walk and move again. He had been assured that the injuries he had received at Epsilon 3 had been permanent. The nature and extent of the spinal damage, to say nothing of the terminal virus he had been infected with two years ago....

And yet here he was. Alive. Fit. Healthy.

A miracle. Or perhaps a sign of the aid they could all be given by their new Vorlon allies.

So why was he so concerned? Something just felt wrong. Very wrong in all this.

It was not that the Captain was here, back on this ship again. It had been years since Sheridan had commanded the Babylon . He had been in charge of Bester's Parmenion for a year and a half, until its destruction at the Battle of the Third Line, the same battle that had almost cost the Captain his life. The Babylon had been.... changed in that time, modified by the Resistance Government with technology provided by their Shadow allies. Corwin had spent weeks on the ship after it had been retaken, checking out the extent of the upgrades. He had done what he could, but the ship still felt wrong, slightly out of synch with what he remembered.

Or maybe it was he who had changed. He had commanded the Babylon in those long months when the Captain had lain in his hospital bed, dying one day at a time. The ship had felt so wrong without the Captain, but now that he was back it felt even worse.

Corwin remembered the meeting of the United Alliance Council he had been called to a few days ago. He had been on this ship, supervising the repair of the damage suffered during their most recent skirmish with the Shadows. He had been working hard, too hard, hoping to forget about Mary that way.

He had not been surprised by the invitation. He was not a member of the Alliance Council, but he had been present at a number of their meetings in the last few months. As military advisor or something. He had always been uncomfortable there, among alien politicians and economists and wizards.

His first reaction had been to wonder where Delenn was. She had always been present at such meetings. His second was to notice that the Captain was there. Standing.

"Captain!" he had cried. "But.... What...?"

"It's good to see you too, David," he had replied with a broad smile. The two men, friends for over a decade, had embraced, and Corwin had just looked at his commander, dumbfounded.

"What happened?"

"The Vorlons," had come the simple reply. "God knows what type of tech they've got at their disposal, but they used it to heal everything. I'm fine. Perfectly fine. I feel better than I have in years."

"That's great! That's.... Does Delenn know?" There had been a chill pause. "What?"

"She's not here. They've got her. The Shadows."

"How? What happened?"

"We don't know.... not entirely. We think one of the aides here in the Council was infected by one of those.... Keepers. One of Delenn's servants is missing, as well as her private shuttle. We think they managed to capture her, or knock her out.... or something. They've taken her to Z'ha'dum."