Casting Shadows (The Passing of the Techno-Mages #1)

by Jeanne Cavelos

  “Would you care for a drink?” Tilar waved toward the waitress.

  “No,” Galen said. He followed the Narns to their various rooms, watched them go in. They’re all in bed—probably for a few hours, at least, he wrote to Isabelle. And he hadn’t let any of the balls drop. If he had been working with his chrysalis, he would have been breathless and dripping with sweat from the effort of casting so many spells. Now, the physical effort was minimal.

  Yet the mental effort remained, and without the physical exhaustion to slow him down, he realized he was putting a greater stress on his mind, on his ability to remain focused and in control. He must not overestimate his abilities and risk a slip.

  The waitress came over, and Tilar ordered another. When Isabelle declined as well, Tilar looked with curiosity at their empty table.

  “We came as a favor to Burell,” Isabelle explained. “She has a long-standing relationship with the manager, Cadmus Wilcox. He was nervous about some of the wilder elements”—she nodded toward the bar—“so we came to offer protection.”

  “They like to drink.” Tilar straightened his vest. “Don’t we all?” Though his head wavered back and forth, his eyes fixed on Galen. They were filled with longing. “What is it like, being a techno-mage?”

  The agitating undercurrent of energy, the constant need for control, the ease of casting spells, the instantaneous echo of himself—none of these were things Galen would share with anyone. He shook his head. “It is—hard to describe.”

  Tilar snorted.

  “We’re still figuring it out,” Isabelle said. “It’s similar to having a chrysalis, but the connection is much clearer and stronger.”

  The waitress brought Tilar’s drink.

  He leaned onto the table, his hands on either side of the glass, and stared into its depths. “Tell me about the initiation. What was it like? What did you say when they asked ‘Why are you a techno-mage?’”

  Another awkward silence descended among them.

  “I don’t think we should talk about this,” Isabelle said.

  Tilar’s eyes glistened. “I need to know. It was all I thought of every night for the first year. How I would have answered that question.”

  Galen could imagine himself doing the same thing. “I said I wanted to further the work of the ancients. To master control of the tech. To do good where I can.”

  “And you, Isabelle”—Tilar’s head turned toward her—“what did you say?”

  Isabelle’s grey eyes met Galen’s. I don’t like his questions, she wrote. “I said I wanted to penetrate the mysteries of the tech. To understand how it works.”

  “And is that what you really want? More than anything else?” His heartbeat was rising.

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” Isabelle said.

  He straightened, and Galen saw some of the old mage training in him, the authority of posture, the stern expression, the demand for answers. “I mean, if your powers were unlimited, if there were no restrictions, what would you want? What would you want the power to do?”

  The conversation had turned from Tilar’s regret and curiosity to something else, something Galen didn’t understand.

  “For a techno-mage,” Galen said, “can there be anything greater than to master control of the tech?”

  “That is what I asked you,” Tilar said.

  Isabelle’s hands closed into fists. “I would heal my mother.”

  Tilar smiled and he didn’t seem half as drunk as he had before. “I always dreamed of ruling an empire, as did Kwa-kiri and Neldonic. Or at the least to be like Frazur, who gave his blessing to the first emperor of the Centauri Republic and became the power behind the throne. As he said ‘Magic enables clever men to dominate others, become kings, set up the first states, and become immortalized as gods after death.’” His gaze lingered on Galen, almost as if in challenge. Then he took a long drink from his glass. “Instead I issue orders from a barstool.”

  Isabelle was staring down at her fists, preoccupied.

  “We should be leaving,” Galen said. “The hotel seems safe for now, and Burell will be waking up soon.”

  Isabelle stood. “Yes. We should get back to her.”

  “Perhaps I’ll see you again,” Tilar said.

  “Will you be long on Zafran 8?” Galen asked.

  “My schedule is unpredictable. But I would imagine a few days more at least.”

  Galen dipped his finger into the packet of probes. He realized he should have planted a probe on Tilar earlier, when Tilar had first come over. The Centauri would be suspicious of any body contact at this point. Elric always told him to plan ahead. But Galen had been so surprised he hadn’t thought to plant a probe.

  “It was good to see you again,” Galen said.

  “You’ll pardon me if I don’t stand” Tilar said. “My legs no longer seem to be functioning.”

  Isabelle laid a hand on his shoulder. “Do you need assistance?”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll just sit here a while, lord of all I survey.”

  They said their good-byes. Outside, Galen turned to Isabelle. “That was—”

  She gave him a stern look, eyebrows raised. He found he had received a message. Check yourself for probes.

  Tilar could have enough knowledge to make probes of his own, as Galen did. Probes need not be coordinated through mage implants. They could as easily transmit their findings to a datasystem. Tilar had hugged them both when he’d first approached. Of course, he would know that any probes he planted would eventually be detected.

  Galen scanned down his body, looking for foreign transmissions or electronic activity.

  I don’t find anything, he wrote.

  “I don’t either,” she said. “But what was that all about?”

  “I don’t know. I believe he contrived to meet us. Perhaps to find some answers for himself?”

  Isabelle nodded. “If not for himself, then for whom?”

  — chapter 9 —

  Elric closed the door behind him, glad to be home for once before midnight. The convocation had been running more smoothly since the initiation, though there were daily crises to be handled and changes to be accommodated. He’d given his presentation on additional hyperspace currents he’d discovered, solved a food shortage, and stopped a fight between two of the Kinetic Grimlis. He’d found a private site for Blaylock and his followers to perform a mortification ritual, shuffled meetings to keep feuding parties from running into each other, and ejected Jab twice from the proceedings.

  Circe had been upset that he’d missed her lecture, but as much as could be expected the mages seemed to be enjoying themselves. The young apprentices played and learned; those new to the chrysalis had their first awkward training sessions; the initiates worked with the Kinetic Grimlis to meld a piece of their chrysalis to their new ship and master its operation. The rest of them talked, bragged, laughed, and argued.

  Elric had always enjoyed these meetings, but this convocation was different. Since Galen had left, Elric had felt detached. He seemed to pass through events like a holographic illusion; nothing could touch him. He felt as if he lived in a world of Shadows, and doom, and he was the only one who could see them coming. Blaylock, he knew, felt it too, but that was little comfort. It wasn’t Blaylock’s student who had been sent into danger.

  Elric stood in the middle of the main room. The lights were dark, the fire cold. The house was quiet, empty. And perhaps it would remain so from this time forth.

  Elric shook off his mood, turned on some lights, and conjured a magical fire on the hearth. He had given Galen a staff, had told Galen all that he could. The Circle had determined that Galen and Isabelle must complete this task themselves. Was there nothing more he might do?

  He sat at the table, found himself accessing the probe recording of Galen’s attack on Elizar. He had watched it many times the night of the attack, so much that he almost knew it by heart. But he hadn’t watched it since.

  The probe on the tent had been situa
ted a bit behind Elizar, so Elric could see only Elizar’s side and back, while Galen and Isabelle faced him. Beneath the light globes that illuminated the night, their features seemed flat, washed out.

  Elizar brought his hands to his mouth and released a sustained syllable, casting a spell.

  “No,” Isabelle said. Her fingers moved to conjure a shield.

  Galen’s eyes widened, and Elric could see the moment he cast the spell, the instinctive flash from Galen’s mind to the chrysalis, like the parry of a well-trained fencer. Such fights were not uncommon. What was uncommon was the strength of Galen’s defense, a counterattack that could completely annihilate the opponent, and perhaps much more.

  But did that mean he had to be sent, just out of the chrysalis, to face the Shadows, perhaps to die?

  Almost instantly Galen’s face tightened with concentration, and Elric could see him trying to alter the spell, to render it safe.

  Suddenly Elric’s attention was drawn away. Far behind Galen, in the shadows by the cliffs, someone was standing. Elric was amazed he had never seen the person before. He’d been so focused on Galen, he hadn’t noticed anything else.

  He cut away the rest of the image, enlarged the figure. The resolution was poor, the light dim, but he could tell that it was Human, male, of compact build. The man wore not black robes but a dark suit, and he had dark hair. The resolution was good enough that if the man had been a mage, Elric would have recognized him. But he was not a mage.

  Elric remembered the man sent by the Rook of Tain, a special messenger with crates of pects. Morden. He looked like this man. Morden had arrived on the opening night of the convocation, though. This was the next night, the night of the Becoming, when all outsiders were banned. Yet here he was, watching.

  Elric recalled that something about Morden had disturbed him, though the meeting had been so brief, the situation so chaotic, he had never determined what.

  Elric accessed the probe archives in his place of power, re-toned to the opening night of the convocation. After some quick searching, there was Morden, with his smooth voice, his message from the Rook, and his crates of pects. As Elric looked at it now, the situation struck him as a sloppy attempt at misdirection: generate chaos to avoid scrutiny. He was ashamed that it had worked.

  But why would Morden want to avoid scrutiny? His authorization from the Rook had been valid. What was he afraid Elric would find?

  Elric labeled Morden’s figure and did a search for it throughout the probes in the convocation area, from the moment of Morden’s arrival through the present. Since he didn’t have probes in the tents, out of respect for the mages’ privacy, what he might find was limited.

  Yet there were forty positive identifications, and many more possible ones. They began on the opening night and continued for the next two days. Apparently, by the morning of the initiation, Morden had left.

  In his mind’s eye, Elric went through the forty appearances. Morden arrived, entered the tents. He came back out in conversation with one of the Kinetic Grimlis. That one introduced him to the others. He mingled that first night with many of the mages, though Elric noticed Morden stayed away from the members of the Circle. Occasionally he would lead one mage away from the others, to talk in private, in the shadows. He did this with Circe, Djadjamonkh, Maskelyne, others. There was so much noise from the opening-night gathering that Elric couldn’t hear any of these conversations.

  Early in the morning of the second day, as most of the mages returned to their ships for a few hours’ rest, Morden entered the tents. He didn’t come out until nightfall, when he came upon Galen and the others. He observed the argument. He saw Galen strike, with overwhelming force. Then he withdrew.

  Morden didn’t appear again until the next afternoon, when he mingled again with mages outside the tents. Since the Becoming had been postponed until the Circle came to a decision regarding Galen, no one expelled the outsider. This time the one taken aside was Alwyn.

  Now Elric would find out what Morden had been saying. Besides Galen, he trusted Alwyn more than anyone—trusted him to be sarcastic, outspoken, uncompromising, and honest. Tonight Elric had left him, half drunk, in the middle of a probe-spitting contest. At least, perhaps, he could get the part of the truth that Alwyn remembered.

  He composed a message. Alwyn, you spoke to this man. He inserted Morden’s image. What did he say to you?

  Elric waited impatiently for a response, continuing through the recordings, finding an image of Morden leaving for Lok on the evening of the third day. He switched to the probe by the Lok wagon station, found Morden getting transportation back to Tain. Estimating the travel time, Elric accessed his probes in the Rook’s office and home. Morden did not appear.

  Instead he arrived at the Tain spaceport. The spaceport was actually little more than a wide, flat field around which numerous shops and businesses had grown up, handling what little trade Tain had with other systems. A small building handled the processing of off-worlders and foreign goods—mainly charging fees and checking their names off a list. Elric maintained several probes inside and outside the building. Morden entered about half a day after leaving Lok, and headed out onto the field, where a small personal transport waited. Elric watched it lift off with a feeling of relief. He was gone.

  He received a response from Alwyn. In the middle of something IMPORTANT here, as you know. Three points ahead! Fed got a bull’s-eye but vomited on it, so I had it disqualified. Youngster can’t hold his liquor.

  I remember the man, vaguely. He was the representative of someone from ... somewhere. Welcomed us here, said his—employer?—was curious about mages. Asked why do I do what I do? What do I want? I gave him the standard line about—Hold on a minute.

  The message ended. Elric sighed waiting for another. In a minute, it came.

  Stiff competition here. Where—yes, I gave him some standard lines about knowing all that can be known, creating awe and wonder—the Circle would have been proud of me—but he didn’t seem satisfied, I remember. Asked me again, what do I want? I can’t remember exactly how the conversation went, but I ended up saying I wanted all hypocrites to have their sins broadcast on ISN and then be questioned in their underwear by a journalist. He was unamused. In fact, I think I actually upset him. That’s it.

  Now to put these rapscallions in their place.

  The message ended.

  Elric was becoming more and more concerned. Someone had come into their convocation, questioned them, observed them, and to what end? Morden had somehow gotten the Rook to lend his name and authority to the enterprise, though the questions Morden asked had not been for the Rook. His answers had been delivered elsewhere.

  Elric retrieved the note from the Rook, grateful that instinct had made him keep it. On the envelope, his sensors isolated a Human thumbprint. It was not his own. Elric linked to Earth’s databases, searched for any record of Morden. Luckily, it wasn’t a common name. In the current taxpayer records, banking records, retirement account records, he found only 1,211 Mordens. Of those, 591 were male, 73 within the twenty-eight to thirty-eight age range, and only 19 with Morden’s coloring, height, and weight. None of them matched the thumbprint or the face.

  Elric decided to search farther back, looking at births within the likely period. Eliminating all the Mordens he had already checked, he found only one additional record of birth: May 25, 2223 in Summit, New Jersey. From there he traced the opening of a retirement security account when Morden was in his teens. The thumbprint matched, and the face—though much younger—belonged to the man he had met. His first job was at the Michigan State University bookstore. Elric checked the school’s records, was surprised to find that Morden had earned his Ph.D. in archaeology, with a specialty in archaeolinguistics. After graduation, Morden had gone to work in EarthForce’s New Technologies Division. His records there were closed. Elric would send a computer demon to breach the security and retrieve them.

  Elric found an identicard photo of the adult Morden; it was
definitely the same man. In June 2248, the retirement account records showed he was married. In October 2250, daughter Sarah born. Then in May 2256, both wife and daughter died. And at the beginning of last year, January 2257, Morden’s retirement account had been closed. He was registered deceased.

  Which did nothing to illuminate the situation. What was a dead archaeologist doing at their convocation?

  Alwyn had said that Morden grew upset at the mention of ISN, the Interstellar News Network. Elric followed the hunch and accessed the ISN archives, which were open to the public. He searched under Morden, found a cluster of dates around May 2256. He called up the first news story. The anchorwoman announced that the Io jumpgate had been destroyed in a terrorist bombing. At the moment of the explosion, a ship with over five hundred passengers had been entering the jumpgate. As she spoke of the grieving relatives, they showed a swarm of reporters surrounding Morden. As they yelled out questions—“How do you feel about the death of your wife and child?” “What would you like to say to the terrorists?”—Morden struck out at them, shoving them back, turning in a circle as he did to clear some space for himself. “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” Morden yelled, his face red. The nervous reporters hastily backed into one another, but continued to shout questions. In the middle of the empty space he had cleared, Morden turned slowly, brought his hands to his ears, and screamed.

  Alwyn had written, I ended up saying I wanted all hypocrites to have their sins broadcast on ISN and then be questioned in their underwear by a journalist.

  Could this be Morden’s sin? Could he have had his wife and five-year-old daughter killed, along with a ship full of other people? If so, what powerful allies could have helped an archaeologist destroy a jumpgate?

  When they had met, Morden’s voice, his body, were carefully controlled. He had used misdirection to avoid scrutiny.

  What was he hiding?

  Elric removed the image from his mind’s eye. All his questions were merely ways to avoid the one question he feared to ask, the one he feared to answer, and the one he believed he now could.