Casting Shadows (The Passing of the Techno-Mages #1)
Page 1
BOOK 1 of
The Passing of the Techno-Mages
Casting Shadows
By Jeanne Cavelos
Based on
an original outline by
J. Michael Straczynski
A Del Rey® Book
THE BALLANTINE PUBLISHING GROUP • NEW YORK
Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as “unsold or destroyed” and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.
A Del Rey® Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
TM & copyright © 2001 by Warner Bros.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Del Rey and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
BABYLON 5, characters, names and all related indicia are trademarks of Warner Bros. © 2001.
www.delreydigital.com
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 00-108231
ISBN 0-345-42721-1
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition: March 2001
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3
To Leo F. Ferris
who first showed me
magic
— acknowledgments —
Thanks very much to J. Michael Straczynski for again allowing me to come and play in his fascinating universe. Thanks also to Fiona Avery at Babylonian Productions for helping me remain consistent with that universe, and to Skye Herzog and Paula Allen at Warner Bros.
Thanks to my editor, Steve Saffel, for all his support, and to my agent, Lori Perkins, for her tireless efforts.
Grateful thanks to my group of science experts, who applied their genius and expertise to bizarre and complex questions: Tom Thatcher, Dr. Charles Lurio, Dr. Korey Moeller, M. Mitchell Marmel, Dr. Stuart Penn, Dr. Dennis C. Hwang, Bruce Goatly, Megan Gentry, Dr. David Loffredo, Jim Batka, Dr. Gary Day, Elizabeth Bartosz, Dr. Stephanie Ross, Reed Riddle, Dr. Michael Blumlein, Beth Dibble, Dr. Gail Dolbear, Dr. John Schilling, Britta Serog, and Dr. Paul Viscuso.
Thanks to my group of Babylon 5 experts, who generously shared their incredible store of knowledge with me: Karen Hayes, K. Waldo Ricke, Merryl Gross, Don Kinney, Alec Ecyler, Penny Rothkopf, William (Pete) Pettit, John Donigan, Patricia Jackson, Marty Gingras, Allen Wilkins, Terry Jones, Bill Hartman, Michael A. Burstein, and Nomi Burstein.
Thanks to all the people who read pieces of this book in manuscript form and gave invaluable feedback: Laurie and Mike Hilyard, Keith Demanche, Barnaby Rapoport, Susan Shell Winston, JoAnn Forgit, Martha Adams, Stephen Chambers, Marty Hiller, Troy Ehlers, Elaine Isaak, Margo Cavelos, David Lowrey, George Williams, and Roxanne Hutton.
Thanks to my research assistant, Keith Maxwell, for finding exactly what I needed exactly when I needed it.
Thanks to James George Frazer and Orson Scott Card for saying things worthy of a techno-mage, and to James Randi.
Thanks to Ben Dibble for the loan of a laptop, without which this book wouldn’t have gotten finished in time.
Thanks to Mark Purington, Sue Gagnon, and the rest of the staff at Saint Anselm College’s Geisel Library.
A special thanks to my husband, Michael Flint, for his unending help and understanding, and for telling me of the lonely command of Confederate General Cadmus Wilcox, who held his own against superior forces at Chancellorsville.
And in the “No thanks” department, a dishonorable mention to Igmoe, my iguana, whose constant attempts to mate with me throughout the writing of this book were enough to drive me to distraction, though they did keep the days exciting. And I was flattered. I do love you, Igmoe, just not in that way.
WHO ARE YOU?
“Many a man has seen himself first in a dream.”
—Anonymous
November 2258
—chapter 1 —
Soon the war would come.
With a cry of joy Anna swooped toward the barren moon, her sisters behind her. As her sleek body cut through the invigorating vacuum of space, she surveyed the training site eagerly, hungry for challenge. The Eye had specified the coordinates to be attacked. This exercise was to be at close range, surgical, precise.
Anna loved training, exploring her abilities, honing her skills. She had learned the dizzying delight of movement, the exhilarating leap to hyperspace, the grace of flexion, the joy of the war cry. She had learned to deliver from their confinement great balls of destruction; to calculate the most efficient patterns of attack; to engage and never break off, not until the enemy was utterly destroyed.
This would be the first time she uttered her war cry. As she wheeled toward the target, Anna held her body in perfect control. She felt tireless, invulnerable. The machine was so beautiful, so elegant. Perfect grace, perfect control, form and function integrated into the circuitry of the unbroken loop, the closed universe. All systems of the machine passed through her; she was its heart; she was its brain; she was the machine. She kept the neurons firing in harmony. She synchronized the cleansing and circulation in sublime synergy. She beat out a flawless march with the complex, multileveled systems. The skin of the machine was her skin; its bones and blood, her bones and blood. She and the machine were one: a great engine of chaos and destruction.
The rocky brown surface of the moon grew closer, taking on definition, detail. She located the seven targets, boulders within a wide, shallow crater. She and her six sisters were each to destroy one. She narrowed her focus to her assigned target, coordinated her speed with her course. Excitement gathered in her throat. She plunged into the crater and shrieked out her war cry. Her body rushed with an ecstasy of fire. Energy blasted from her mouth in a brilliant red torrent. The boulder was vaporized.
Around her, her sisters fell upon the targets, their mouths screaming destruction.
Chaos through warfare, the Eye said. Evolution through bloodshed. Perfection through victory.
One of the targets was not completely destroyed. A fragment remained. Anna pounced on it, eager to shriek again. She targeted it, screamed out chaos. The exhilaration shot through her. The fragment was obliterated, a hole scorched into the surface below.
Excited by the activity, her sisters fell upon the vanquished target, shrieking out a cacophony of chaos. Particles of rock flew up as they blasted a great hole into the moon, firing again and again. Anna drew energy up into her mouth, screamed it out in blazing red.
The greatest excitement is the thrill of battle, the Eye said. The greatest joy is the ecstasy of victory.
Anna’s greatest desire was to feel it. And she knew she would soon.
For soon the war would come.
The ship sang of the beauty of order, of perfect symmetry and ultimate peace. It glided through the calm blackness of space, absorbing it. Energy circulated through its petals in a regular rhythm. The serenity of its silent passage, the unity of its functioning, the satisfaction of service wove through its melody.
Ahead, a blue-and-white orb glowed in the blackness, the goal of the journey. The ship slipped through the stillness toward it, following Kosh’s direction eagerly. Obedience was its greatest joy.
Within the song, Kosh slowed the ship’s speed, directing it to stop a safe distance from the planet, which was known to its inhabitants as Soom. Although most of the planet’s inhabitants had little technology, t
wo lived among them and served as guardians, two fabulists, who would detect his presence if he went too close.
Soon more would come as the fabulists gathered for their assemblage. Long had Kosh watched them, for three hundred and thirty and three such assemblages. He had watched as different races had become dominant within the group, the most recent being Humans. He had watched as the fabulists gradually transformed from anarchy to order. They had achieved some admirable goals, had created fleeting moments of great beauty.
But now the universe was gathering itself for a great conflagration. The forces of chaos had returned to their ancient home and had begun to build their resources for war. The Vorlons, Kosh among them, likewise prepared. The fabulists did not know the danger of their position. They carried great power. They could be the pivot on which the great war turned.
Many among the Vorlons thought the time for action was now. They did not trust the fabulists. Yet Kosh felt they must watch just a while longer. The fabulists faced a difficult decision, and they should be allowed to make it. If they chose wrongly, then they would die. But let them first choose. Great power carried both great danger and great possibility.
Kosh altered the ship’s song, directing the ship to extrude several buoys, which would take up positions around the planet and observe it. Then he would return to Babylon 5. And he would watch this one, last assemblage.
Galen closed his eyes and focused on the equation. He thought of all his spells as equations, though they weren’t anything like traditional scientific ones. The terms of his equations were complex and bizarre, impenetrable and irreducible. Yet to him they represented actions and properties, and if he could form an image in his mind of a particular equation, he could conjure the thing it represented.
Like most spells, this one had many terms: several to generate a pinkish translucent sphere three inches across, another to generate energy within it, yet more to give that energy the appearance of a delicate flame. He’d done this one many times.
Taking a deep breath, he imagined his mind as a blank screen, visualized the equation written upon it. The chrysalis, fastened to his head and spine, acknowledged the equation by echoing it back to him. Galen opened his eyes. The ball of energy floated in front of him.
“Around the hall,” Elric ordered from behind him, gripping the tail-like section of the chrysalis that ran down his spine.
His teacher’s voice, deep and rich, carried a power that had at first intimidated Galen. Later, when Elric taught him the techno-mage techniques of voice modulation, Elric’s voice and the skill with which he used it amazed Galen. By extending certain sounds, pausing at specific places, and modulating his intonation to almost hypnotic effect, everything he said took on heightened power and importance.
Holding the image of the original equation firmly in his mind’s eye, Galen added another, a spell for movement. One equation took the ball of energy from the center of the modest training hall, where it hovered before him, to the hall’s stone wall. Another equation sent the ball into a circular course around the hall. The ball circulated a few feet below the thatched ceiling, where several of Elric’s light globes floated for illumination.
“A second ball,” Elric commanded.
Holding the original equation and the equation for circular movement in his mind’s eye, Galen conjured a second ball. The chrysalis echoed the spell, reflecting his thought.
“Change the flames to flowers,” Elric said.
Galen concentrated on the equation for the second ball, specifically on the terms that generated the flames. Below them, he visualized the terms necessary to create an image of white kwa blossoms. Then he moved the new set of terms up, replacing the old. The flames changed to flowers.
“Triple speed first ball.”
With intense focus, Galen kept the two equations for the two balls firmly in his mind, and at the same time altered the equation of motion, tripling the velocity of the first ball’s circular course. The effort caused his breath to come faster now.
“Second ball up and down.”
Maintaining the images of his three spells on the imaginary screen, Galen formed an equation that sent the second ball up to the thatched ceiling, then a new equation to send it back and forth between the ceiling and the woven grass mat that covered the floor. The ball of flowers began to zip up and down.
“Third ball with a piece of lint in it.”
Galen held his focus. Elric tried to use odd requests to throw him off, to make him lose concentration. But he would not. He formed an equation for the third ball, giving it a dark interior so that the image of a tiny fleck of white lint inside would be visible. The third ball appeared. Galen was breathing even harder; this was the farthest he’d ever gotten.
“Circle around your head.”
Holding the three equations for the three balls and the two equations for motion in his mind, Galen began to formulate an equation of motion for the third ball. As he calculated its circular course around his head, though, his mind slipped. Like patting his head and rubbing his stomach, the multiple signals crossed in his mind. Control slipped away as the equations became entangled. Galen cursed himself.
The lint ball popped out of existence. The first ball raced down the side of the hall and slammed into the rock wall with a burst of flame; the second bounced off the thatched ceiling at an angle and came screaming toward them.
Galen frantically formulated the quenching spell that would dissipate the energy of the ball, unmake it. But the spell had to be matched with the position of the object, which was now shooting past his face and heading straight for Elric. Why didn’t Elric override his control of the chrysalis, as he always did when things went awry?
Galen focused desperately on the ball’s position, inserted the position into the equation. About two inches from Elric’s eye, the ball’s pinkish surface flashed in a glittering wave and abruptly dissolved.
Galen looked away, breathing hard, exhausted from the exertion. Beneath his black robe, his skin ran with sweat. Elric released his hold on the chrysalis so Galen could turn to face him. Reluctantly, Galen turned.
Elric’s figure, as always, was severe: plain black robe with high collar, scalp scoured hairless in honor of the Code, lips in a thin straight line. His posture was erect, his hands at his sides.
His gestures, when he made them, were as controlled and powerful as his words. His face generally showed one of two expressions: disappointment or grave disappointment. The difference was the number of frown lines between his eyebrows.
Disappointment had two; grave disappointment, three.
He had three.
“Why didn’t you—shut me down?” Galen asked, still breathless. The chrysalis was designed so that a full techno-mage could override its functions at any time, erase all active spells instantly and completely. A mage held onto the taillike section of the chrysalis, which ran down the apprentice’s spine, the sensors in the mage’s fingertips making contact with the chrysalis tech. This allowed the teacher to break the connection between apprentice and chrysalis if necessary. The apprentice himself could dissolve or end a spell—assuming he could conjure the correct quenching spell in time—but he did not have the instant override capability his teacher did.
“In two days’ time,” Elric said, “no mage will be able to shut you down. You’ll have to deal with your own mistakes then.”
In two days’ time, Galen was to be initiated and receive the implants that would make him a techno-mage. It was what he most wanted. And yet here he was, still failing to control his conjuries, still failing Elric. He was not ready. He was not fit. His skills were nowhere near Elric’s, and he didn’t know if they ever would be.
“You focus on knowledge and understanding,” Elric said. “These are the highest goals to which a mage can aspire. Yet underlying all that we stand for, all that we do, is one cardinal requirement: control. You must master the tech. It must do what you direct. And you must direct what it does. Under any circumstance. D
espite any distraction.”
Galen nodded. He knew that Elric was constantly engaged in multiple spells, accessing data from the many probes he had planted on Soom, reinforcing spells of protection, performing various services he had promised to the inhabitants. Yet Elric never appeared distracted. Elric never slipped.
“Tell me the other weaknesses in your work,” Elric said, lingering over the word weaknesses. It was one of Elric’s favorite topics.
“Presentation.”
“Why?” Elric walked over to the rough wooden table in the corner, where Galen had placed a jug of water and two mugs. Other than a long wooden bench along one wall, this was the only furniture in the stone hall.
Galen followed, the chrysalis clinging to the top of his head and his spine, pulling at his skin as he walked. “I concentrate on the spells rather than on the effects they have on others. My focus is inward, not outward.”
“You must control people’s perceptions,” Elric said, pouring two mugs of water and handing one to Galen. “The greatest of us—Wierden, Gali-Gali, Kell—have so perfectly controlled the perceptions of others that in many cases those others never knew technomancy had been employed. They never even knew a mage had walked among them.”
Galen noticed a tiny black bug floating on the surface of his water, its legs gesticulating.
“A public act of technomancy is a competition of wits between the mage and all onlookers. The mage must connect with those onlookers, observe and evaluate their reactions, misdirect and manipulate them.”
“I’ve been studying the techniques,” Galen said. “But I still don’t understand why people’s perceptions can be so easily manipulated.” He glanced back down into his mug. He realized the tiny black object floating there wasn’t really a bug, as he’d thought, but just a piece of dirt whose shape suggested a bug.
“Most intelligent beings aren’t comfortable living in a state of uncertainty. Their brains automatically revise what they see, filling in details that were never there. They make events fit into patterns they understand.”