Londo certainly deserved death. Yet that had not been Galen's purpose in leaving the hiding place. Besides, Galen told himself, Londo was Morden's puppet. Morden used Londo's desires and ambitions to manipulate him.
Just as Morden had used Circe's desires and ambitions to manipulate her. To drive her to murder. Morden was Galen's purpose. In the shadowy light of the shaft he saw a dark obstruction ahead, near the area of Morden's room. As he scanned into the infrared band, the object took on shape and substance, glowing a dull red with warmth. The thick, gleaming membrane blocked the way, attached at multiple points around its circumference to the shaft, like a spider-web. Over its surface, areas of warmth and coolness shifted and flowed, arranging themselves into new patterns.
When he'd studied his transceiver, he'd seen its golden skin pulse lighter and darker in a strikingly similar way. Beneath the membrane's surface, threads of brilliant red glittered, interwoven and complex, transmitting electrical activity.
Galen thought of the gelatinous black matter behind the wall of the white room where Elizar had trapped him. Anna had pulled away the wall panel and reached into that living machine, and it had extruded to envelop her, a blackness shot through with veins of silver. Through it, she had connected to the systems of the underground complex. This was a much smaller, simpler example of Shadow tech. An alarm system. And perhaps more. A trap.
Even after studying Burell's research, he had no real understanding of the Shadows' organic technology. How the membrane, partly alive, might be produced, how it might sustain itself, remained mysteries. He couldn't even tell with certainty whether the membrane he faced was in essence matter, or some mixture of matter and shaped energy. How he might get past, he had no idea.
Galen stopped before it. The vent to Morden's room was just five feet beyond. He focused on the wall of the shaft beside him, used his sensors to tell him what lay on the other side: a space, a room. He was up near the ceiling, behind one corner. Across the room stood a Human, and from that figure radiated the constant, low-frequency energy Galen had detected from Morden's implant. The Shadows would be there as well, though Galen could not sense them through the wall.
He needed to know where they were so he could focus on them, so he could cast his spell to listen to their communications. He needed to get to the vent. A second figure entered the room. Centauri. Londo. Right on schedule.
Raised voices sounded down the shaft, and Galen focused on them, amplifying the sound.
"...here? How did you even find me? We agreed we would always meet in the hedge maze," Morden said.
"Excuse me for the breach in etiquette! I'm about to be murdered! He's a madman. I nearly choked to death. And it is your fault, Mr. Morden. You and your associates put me in this position. You have to deal with this man! You have to protect me."
"Ambassador. What are you talking about?"
As Londo recounted his experience, Galen's mind raced to find some way past the membrane. Surely if he destroyed it, the Shadows would be alerted to his presence. He must reach the vent, or he would have to postpone or abandon his plan. Postponing the plan was unthinkable; he must leave Babylon 5 soon.
If he abandoned his attempt to trace the Shadows' signal, then he could simply proceed with Morden's murder, a much more straightforward task. But he knew no other way to find Elizar and Razeel quickly, except to go to the shell-shaped region of space, to meet them and the Shadows in battle. That he must not do. He could not allow them to escape him, to use his spell of destruction.
He had to get past the membrane. If he touched or manipulated it in any way, he risked detection, yet he could think of nothing else.
Galen raised his hand to the shifting surface, hoping to gain some additional information through the sensors in his fingertips. The membrane's skin was warm, moist, and he detected carbon, oils, organic compounds. As he studied its composition, the membrane swelled against his hand, and with a sudden shift the thick material oozed down over his fingers.
Galen started, fighting the urge to yank his arm back. The red membrane spread down his hand, wrist, capturing him as a spider-web trapped prey. The warmth crawled over the sleeve of his robe, reaching ahead with disconcerting muscular contractions. It was exploring him, subsuming him.
Just as it had with Anna. Anna had gained control of that living machine on Thenothk. Of course, the Shadows had altered her to serve that purpose. Yet he too was a creature of the Shadows. Could he gain control of the membrane? He focused on the shifting red skin, cast the spell to associate. There was no echo from the tech, no connection to the membrane. He had no method for joining with it.
The warmth oozed over his shoulder, worked its way up his neck. Galen closed his eyes, took a deep breath and held it. He visualized the equation, moved the platform slowly ahead into the membrane. Its moistness touched his forehead and flowed down his skin, its fingers sliding over eyes, nose, ears.
In the stretching, reaching, contracting of its progress, he sensed its desire. It searched for his nature, to classify him – machine or being, ally or enemy. It poured under the collar of his robe, down his chest and back. It found the tech that ran closest to the surface of his skin, along his shoulder blades and spine. Its thickness gathered there, rippling, considering.
Galen held to the equation of motion. As he continued forward, the membrane reached farther and farther down his torso, to his legs, and he thought it must release his hand, which remained extended in front of him, or his face. Yet they remained coated in warmth, the membrane's volume seemingly endless.
Then its grasp curled around his boots, and his entire body was contained within it. If it would not release him, then it would either have to stop his forward progress or detach itself from the shaft. But it did neither.
At last the warmth broke away from his fingers, withdrawing down his hand, his wrist. In another moment its warm grip released his head, the membrane splitting apart, working its way down forehead, eyes, nose, mouth. He gasped for air. The dampness retreated down his neck, chest.
The membrane was letting him pass. It, too, realized they were kin. It released his legs, reconstituted itself in its old shape. He stopped his forward movement. He lay now beside the vent. He buried his head in his arms, muffled his greedy breathing. Morden's smooth voice came to him.
"We know Elric's student. His name is Galen. He's young, vicious, and undisciplined – fortunately for you. A more experienced techno-mage would have killed you long before security arrived."
"Very reassuring."
"Are you positive he was alone?"
Galen controlled his breathing, lifted his head. Morden suspected that more than one mage had come to Babylon 5.
He peered through the vent. The room was plain, small, with a neatly made bed in the far corner, two easy chairs and a table against the near wall. If not for a comp-pad and an empty liquor bottle from the mini-bar on the table, Galen would have thought the room unused. Londo and Morden stood below him, near the table and chairs.
At the sight of Morden so close, so near to the time of his death, eagerness rose up in Galen, the tech surging with a burning rush. Londo held a glass with the contents of the liquor bottle, and he downed it in several gulps, followed by a grimace. His other hand still clutched the statue.
"You mean he's not the only one that's still alive?"
"There may be one or two others."
"One or two – this is completely unacceptable. You have to stop them. Kill them – you're good at that. However you do it, just get rid of them."
Londo pointed the empty glass at Morden.
"In the meantime, you and your associates will have to protect me."
Morden stood with his right hand in his pocket, left arm bent at the elbow, hand extended.
"I can arrange for you to be smuggled off the station. That's your best chance. We can bring..."
"My best chance?"
"Galen is a powerful mage."
"I believed I had associates even more powerful."
"You do, Londo. But we can't hunt down a techno-mage and kill him in front of the entire station. He won't go quietly. What we need to do is move the fight to another location, set up a trap for him."
Galen ran through frequencies, found the static-filled shapes of Morden's two associates behind him. They were close enough for Galen to tap into their communications.
"I'm not going to be the bait in any trap."
"If you don't want our help."
"I can't leave the station. This techno-mage has chosen the most breathtakingly inconvenient moment to go on his rampage. Minister Virini is here. I have a plan in motion. You know that. I have to be here."
Morden smiled.
"You want to avoid the appearance of any personal involvement in Refa's death. And you want to be here to destroy Refa's reputation personally, once you've had him killed. Deliver the coup de grace."
"After what he's done to me, of course I do. Why don't you just trick this techno-mage into believing I've left the station and draw him into your trap?"
"Techno-mages aren't easily deceived."
"I can't leave! Not now! I've been setting this up for months. The future of my house depends on it. Whose side are you on, anyway?"
Morden inclined his head.
"Your side, of course, Londo. Haven't we helped whenever you've asked it?"
Londo gave a short, bitter laugh.
"Even when I haven't asked it."
"Well then. You're making things more difficult, but I can send for assistance to solve your problem. Your help will arrive in a day, and will rid you of your techno-mage."
"A day? Who will protect me until then?"
"I'm afraid you'll have to survive that long on your own. My associates can't yet reveal their presence. And no one else here has the power to protect you."
"How am I supposed to survive for even an hour with that madman on the loose?"
Morden moved to the door.
"Disguise yourself. Crawl into a hole. And pull the hole in after you."
He opened the door.
"I'm sorry we can't help any further. I have other business to attend to. I'm leaving in the morning. This is a busy time for us all, Londo. A critical time."
Londo stared at him, then finally went to the door.
"You seem almost afraid of this techno-mage, Mr. Morden. I wonder if he might discover your role in the murder of his people, and search you out as well. If so" – he raised his empty glass – "I wish you the best of luck in staying alive. It's a long time until morning."
He pushed the glass into Morden's hand, turned, and with a nervous glance down the corridor, left. The door closed behind him. Galen pulled the gun out of his pocket, laid it on the platform within easy reach. Fed had said it was silent and powerful. Galen would not use the spell of destruction – not here.
He had barely maintained control with Londo; with Morden, with all Morden had done, all he had provoked others to do – If the gun was insufficient to his task, then it would be insufficient. Morden turned to his associates with a smile.
"Galen has finally revealed himself. We need to let them know, get them here to set up a trap."
A faint chirping seemed to respond. The sounds came in short bursts, with a strange, distorted quality. Galen realized the Shadows were talking to each other. If they were going to contact Elizar and Razeel, they would do it now.
He focused on their static-filled shapes, visualized the one-term equation. Words boiled up through him in a furious rush, whispers upon whispers upon whispers, effervescing through his blood, through legs and arms to chest and neck and brain and out, racing onward to their destinations.
He searched rapidly through the different word strings, focusing on one after another, listening for the one message he must find.
...to Babylon 5 immediately. Your old associate, Galen, is here. You must capture him or kill him.
That was it.
He imagined himself grabbing on to the string. And then he was racing through blood and brain and skull, pulled by the string out of his body and up through the layers of Babylon 5 into space.
As before, the blackness wrapped tightly around him, and the string accelerated down the narrow, constricting channel, carrying him with it. It would take him to his next victim. Beneath his hands, the string bubbled with words, revealing its message.
He has threatened Londo Mollari, a powerful Centauri ally of ours. This Centauri must be kept alive. As for Galen, you know our plans for him, if you can capture him. In any case, he must be stopped.
Then the constricting blackness unfolded, and he found himself in the openness of space. Below lay a planet streaked in shades of brown, the spiky silhouettes of two Shadow ships passing across its surface. With the string, he hurtled down toward it.
Quickly Galen took in the surrounding stars, committing their positions to memory. He was on the rim; he could tell that much instantly. The dusty atmosphere enveloped him; the ragged peaks of black mountains loomed up, and he accelerated, reaching rock and slipping through, speeding downward, caves and stone flashing by in a jumbled torrent. He plunged into the recipient.
Within was dark, and the string stopped its forward movement, curled in on itself like a snake, repeating itself, wrapping its words about him.
Your old associate.
Must be kept alive.
You know our plans.
A powerful ally of ours.
He had gained enough information to find Elizar. Now he must hope that Elizar sent a response to the Shadow, and that he was able to find it. Or else, regardless of what he'd told Alwyn, his abandoned body would die within the shaft.
Galen sensed no other strings in the darkness. He tried to direct himself through Elizar's body, to search for the message, but he only drifted. One second passed into the next, and the next. How long would it take Elizar to compose the response?