Summoning Light (21 page)

Now that he understood how one word of her message had been encoded into the scarf, it was fairly simple to find the rest. As with the single word, the entire message was repeated again and again, in countless different patterns. The words revealed themselves to him one at a time, until the entire message at last emerged, a communication from the past to the present, from the dead to the living, brought finally to light in a different universe from that in which it had been created. Her breath whispered in his ear.

Love need not be spoken to be felt.

Galen looked down at the scarf clutched in his hand. He seemed to see it from a great distance, this dirty tan weaving, this insignificant piece of cloth. She excused him for his failing, excused him for being the repressed, inadequate, unfit Human being he was.

How had he shown her his love?

He had failed to prevent her fatal wound, and as she lay dying, instead of reassuring her with loving words, he had argued with her.

Her chest had labored to draw in air, to find in those last moments the breath to speak, to reassure him, to declare her love.

And then she had gone.

Her message made no difference. She might have forgiven him, but he would never forgive himself.

He saw her again in death, her face slack, tilted to one side. Her lips were slightly parted, her grey eyes blank and cold. The partially healed cut ran down the right side of her forehead into her thin brow. Her skin carried an odd shininess, a sense of artifice.

I could not have lived,
her voice whispered to him,
knowing that I did not protect you.

He forced himself to withhold the cry that wanted to escape, to contain the furious energy that burned through him. He was shaking. But he could not bring down the fire. It might be detected. He retreated into a mind-focusing exercise, then another, then another, recoiling from that place, that time, withdrawing from those feelings, contracting into the dark, secret center of himself.

Gradually he realized that he had accessed her files and was applying his new insight to the translation of her spells. His mind worked mechanically, dispassionately. Hours passed. The room turned dark.

Many of her hand movements, he found, could be grouped into separate, recurring subpatterns, clarifying the structure of the spells. The translations became easier, more straightforward.

The main problem he still faced was the fact that many of her spells took place over extended periods of time, arising from a series of motions. His spells were cast in an instant, through a single equation. He was not sure how the time factor translated into his language.

If it was irrelevant, as it seemed might be true from some of her simpler spells, then his equation should be the equivalent of all her hand movements performed at once. If an index finger of the left hand made a particular motion, then, and a few seconds later the index finger of the right hand mirrored that motion, would those two terms cancel each other out? He thought, perhaps, they would.

As he worked with the spell for Shadow communication, he found more and more terms canceling each other out, the translation growing simpler and simpler. He thought he must have made a mistake, for at the end he was suddenly left with only a single term in his spell. And oddly, the spell was identical to one of the one-term equations he'd discovered as they'd traveled to the rim.

He had derived that new one-term equation from a progression involving several different types of spells, which made its effect difficult to guess. The progression had included the spell to send a message, though, as well as the more complex electron incantation they used to engage in long-distance conversation. So it was possible the spell might involve communication.

But how could such a complex signal as the Shadows' be decoded with such a simple spell? Of course, it was simple only in his language, not in hers, and probably not in the languages of other mages. He went back over his translation, checking each step. If the time factor was irrelevant, his findings were correct. If it was not, he didn't know how to translate the spell.

He had thought, after conjuring the one-term equation of destruction, that any spell with only a single term would prove unstable, not a complete spell at all. If that was true, then this spell could be as dangerous as the other.

Even if it worked as her spell had worked, they would be in great danger. She'd had to be within three feet of their enemies in order to tap into their signal. And once she had, she'd been overwhelmed by its power.

The image came to him. Her body, lying twisted on the floor. Her mouth stretching wide, so wide that her head quivered. The muscles on her neck writhing. And the words of the Shadows driving out of her with the force of possession.

Even when they'd fled, she'd remained in the grip of the signal. Galen had feared it would never release her. When at last she'd come back to herself, his relief had been so great: it had been something he didn't want to think about – how much she meant to him, how quickly she'd transformed his life, and how in losing her, he would lose everything.

Galen shot to his feet, began pacing back and forth beside the bed. The room was deep in shadow. It was late. Blaylock had been gone for more than four hours. Where was he?

Galen scanned for mage energy, but could isolate only his own. He visualized the equation to access the probes he'd planted. In his mind's eye a menu listed them. He selected first the one on Rabelna Dorna's hand. She was in a restaurant, eating dinner. Galen saw nothing of Blaylock. He went from one probe to the next, looking for Blaylock, searching for any useful information, anything to take his mind from himself, from the scarf still clutched in his hand.

He saw the inside of a factory producing delicate, curved metal devices. One of the workers fit the fragile formation, little more than a few sculpted strands of metal, over his head. On each side, it ran from cheek to temple to forehead, and down to the nape of the neck. The worker drooped his head to the side, hung his tongue out of his mouth, and laughed.

Galen saw a warehouse where crates marked as Centauri in origin were being filled with weapons and prepared for shipping to Centauri Prime. In a dark room, he heard the Narn from the ship discussing with another whether their faction might at last gain control of the Kha'Ri and lead their people in the extermination of the Centauri. In a bar, he heard talk of war, and of profits to be made.

The bar reminded him of G'Leel and the rest of the crew of the Khatkhata. Galen wondered whether they might be on Thenothk. Their ship had made several runs here in the past. When they'd crossed paths on Zafran 8, Galen had planted probes on them, and an FTL relay aboard their ship, so that the probes could be accessed even from a great distance. He hadn't tried to access those probes, though, since the convocation.

At that time, they'd been on Thenothk, unloading a cargo of telepaths in sleeper tubes. The purpose of the telepaths remained unclear, except for one, who was to be Elizar's personal weapon. Elizar had said as much, when he'd come aboard to claim a telepath for his own.

The images of Galen's fantasy arose again: Elizar turning and seeing him, that angular, arrogant face filling with fear. And then, Galen's hands covered in blood, clutching the broken threads of Elizar's tech.

Galen hadn't dared to access the Khatkhata probes again, to see Elizar continuing with his life as if nothing had happened. Instead, Galen had given Elric his key, so Elric could access the relay on the ship and, through it, the probes on the crew. After a few days, Elric had told him that contact had been lost. The relay and the probes must have become separated, or else the probes had been destroyed.

If the probes were still intact and they were near enough, Galen could access them directly, without the relay. From his menu, he selected the probes on the Narn crew, and he was surprised to see their images spread out before him.

The crew was in a bar, of course. That seemed to be where they spent most of their time. The room was dimly lit, with a low ceiling and rough, exposed beams. Most of the crew looked fairly advanced in their drinking. They were hanging over each other, gold and black spotted heads swaying unsteadily, as they chanted one of their endless drinking games. They made obscene profits transporting goods to the rim and seemed to have little idea how to spend the money, except in drinking and extravagant self-indulgence.

Second-in-command of the Khatkhata, G'Leel sat apart from them with her back to the bar, quiet and watchful. In the past, she would have joined in.

Captain Ko'Vin stumbled up to her, and Galen quickly accessed his Narn translation program. As Ko'Vin spoke, the translation appeared in his mind's eye.

You could drink those fools under the table. Come on, let's make some money.

I have enough money,
G'Leel said.

This sobriety thing is getting really annoying,
Ko'Vin said.
You didn't find religion, did you?
He leaned close.
What you need is a little love to loosen you up.

You're starting to look pretty repulsive,
she said.

Ko'Vin made a dismissive, untranslatable sound, and lurched to the bar for a refill.

G'Leel had been a valuable source of information before.

Perhaps she'd learned more since they'd last spoken. Galen located the probes. They were only a quarter mile away.

Isabelle would say that G'Leel's presence here, at this time, was evidence of an order to the universe: the universe had put G'Leel here in order to help him. But he found no special significance in G'Leel's presence. They had first questioned her because she was transporting people and materials to Thenothk. The fact that she was here now was a logical consequence.

Isabelle had convinced G'Leel to give them information. She had known, somehow, that this drunken, mercenary Narn would help them. She had believed that G'Leel could transcend herself.

Just as she'd believed Galen could transcend himself.

That's why I was put in your life. You have opened yourself to another. That was the first. Next you will open yourself to yourself. Finally, you will open yourself to God. To his design.

He could not do what she asked. He could not open himself to anyone again – not another, not himself, most especially not a god who would take her away from him as part of some cosmic plan. He was who he was, and he would continue to fail her, even now.

The only way to maintain control was not to open up but to close down, to hold his words and his actions within. If he opened himself, he knew what would come out. Destruction. Galen crossed his arms over his chest, shivering. The need to act was becoming overwhelming.

He stopped his pacing. He could not stay here, with the endless thoughts, the relentless memories. He'd fled all the way to the rim, and still they haunted him. He wadded the scarf into a ball, threw it against the wall. He would find G'Leel, and see what she could tell him.

He opened the door to the adjoining room, left a note in the language of the Soom telling Blaylock where he would be.

Then he left, slamming the door behind him.

"Then you are familiar with the techno-mages, hmm?" Londo asked John Sheridan.

Londo stood at the window in John's office, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the station's vast gardens as if they were his own personal property. Elric watched through a probe Alwyn had managed to plant on John's neck.

"Only by name and reputation," John said. "I've never seen one before. Wasn't really sure they even existed before now."

After Vir had explained his failure to set up an audience with the mages, Londo hadn't wasted a moment to come up with a new strategy. He had not bothered to thank Vir for the attempt, or for pulling him away from a poker game with a techno-mage – a situation that could only have ended in his financial ruin. The idea that the mages had refused to see him while at the same time secretly sending a beautiful representative to cheat him at poker had offended his Centauri pride, and he was more determined than ever to have his way.

"Ah." Londo turned away from the window and approached John, who was sitting behind his desk. "Most unfortunate. On my world we had considerable experience with them. They can be a source of great trouble, unless one knows how to deal with them."

"And you do?" John said.

"Of course. With so many here at one time, and you being new to Babylon 5, and your – well, your inexperience in such matters, no offense–"

John tapped one hand against the other. "None taken."

"It occurred to me that I could be of some small assistance in averting trouble."

John leaned forward. "And what would you get out of it?" He was no fool.

"Oh, a clear conscience and a peaceful sleep." Londo smiled, the smile of a man who had not yet discovered that he was damned and would never again have a clear conscience or a peaceful sleep.

Elric realized someone was knocking at the door of his closet-sized room. They must have news for him, news too sensitive to be delivered by communication. He had lain down with the idea that it would be for only a few minutes. Now he didn't know if he could rise again. His head felt as if it would explode if he moved. "A moment," he said.

John was speaking. He'd come around his desk to face Londo. "Earth wants more information before letting them go, so this is as good an opportunity as any. I'll set up a meeting. Nine o'clock?"

"I'll be there. I'm pleased, Captain, that our first discussions have gone so smoothly. I'm looking forward to many more in the future." Londo turned, raising a hand as he walked out of the office. "Until later, then."

Looking after Londo, John spoke under his breath. "What do the techno-mages have that he wants so badly?"

Elric forced his body into motion. His limbs felt stiff, uncoordinated. His forehead was throbbing. He straightened, determined to show no sign of weakness, and opened the door. Carvin stood there, her lips sucked inward, hands twisted anxiously together. She said nothing.