Pressestimmen
Praise for Babylon 5: The Shadows Within
"Ms. Cavelos does a wonderful job of deepening the layers of the Babylon 5 universe. . . . A highly enjoyable reading experience with a powerful and chilling ending."
--The Zocalo
"The plot involves realistic political intrigue, a sparking interstellar mystery and a sense of doom so thick you can smell it on the pages. This is no by-the-numbers knockoff."
--Captain Comics, The Sunday Telegraph
"Ms. Cavelos does a wonderful job of deepening the layers of the Babylon 5 universe. . . . A highly enjoyable reading experience with a powerful and chilling ending."
--The Zocalo
"The plot involves realistic political intrigue, a sparking interstellar mystery and a sense of doom so thick you can smell it on the pages. This is no by-the-numbers knockoff."
--Captain Comics, The Sunday Telegraph
Kurzbeschreibung
The electrifying space epic reaches an explosive climax
when one techno-mage battles the ultimate evil
As billions die and the flames of destruction rage unchecked, the Shadows seem poised for absolute victory. Soon the entire galaxy will fall to their evil. But the war isn't over . . . not yet. At long last, in a forgotten corner of the universe, Galen has finally won the Circle's permission to leave the techno-mage hiding place. He is the only mage who has faced the Shadows and lived, the only one who possesses the unstoppable Spell of Destruction.
Galen's orders are clear. Though the galaxy is being torn apart by bloody conflict–in which his powers might tip the balance–he is to locate only three key enemies and kill them. But Galen has unearthed the Shadows' darkest secret–and discovered a monstrous truth about himself.
In this desperate, apocalyptic battle, there's no telling who will be the victor. Or if there will be any survivors at all . . .
Babylon 5 created by J. Michael Straczynski
when one techno-mage battles the ultimate evil
As billions die and the flames of destruction rage unchecked, the Shadows seem poised for absolute victory. Soon the entire galaxy will fall to their evil. But the war isn't over . . . not yet. At long last, in a forgotten corner of the universe, Galen has finally won the Circle's permission to leave the techno-mage hiding place. He is the only mage who has faced the Shadows and lived, the only one who possesses the unstoppable Spell of Destruction.
Galen's orders are clear. Though the galaxy is being torn apart by bloody conflict–in which his powers might tip the balance–he is to locate only three key enemies and kill them. But Galen has unearthed the Shadows' darkest secret–and discovered a monstrous truth about himself.
In this desperate, apocalyptic battle, there's no telling who will be the victor. Or if there will be any survivors at all . . .
Babylon 5 created by J. Michael Straczynski
Synopsis
As the Shadows gather for their ultimate victory over the galaxy, Galen, the possessor of the unstoppable Spell of Destruction, leaves the stronghold of the techno-mages to lend his assistance in the final, apocalyptic battle against the evil of the Shadows.
Über den Autor
Jeanne Cavelos began her professional life as an astrophysicist, working in the Astronaut Training Division at NASA’s Johnson Space Center. Her love of science fiction sent her into a career in publishing. She became a senior editor at Dell Publishing, where she ran the science fiction/fantasy program and created the Abyss horror line, for which she won the World Fantasy Award. A few years ago, Jeanne left New York to pursue her own writing career. She is the author of The Science of Star Wars, The Science of The X-Files, and the Babylon 5 novel The Shadow Within. Jeanne is also the director of Odyssey, an annual summer workshop for writers of fantasy, science fiction, and horror. You can visit her Web site at www.sff.net/people/jcavelos or contact her at jcavelos@sff.net.
J. Michael Straczynski is one of the most prolific and highly regarded writers currently working in the television industry. In 1995, he was selected by Newsweek magazine as one of their Fifty for the Future, described as innovators who will shape our lives as we move into the twenty-first century. His work spans every conceivable genre–historical dramas, literary adaptations, mystery series, cop shows, anthology series, and science fiction. He writes ten hours a day, seven days a week, except for his birthday, New Year”s, and Christmas.
J. Michael Straczynski is one of the most prolific and highly regarded writers currently working in the television industry. In 1995, he was selected by Newsweek magazine as one of their Fifty for the Future, described as innovators who will shape our lives as we move into the twenty-first century. His work spans every conceivable genre–historical dramas, literary adaptations, mystery series, cop shows, anthology series, and science fiction. He writes ten hours a day, seven days a week, except for his birthday, New Year”s, and Christmas.
Leseprobe. Abdruck erfolgt mit freundlicher Genehmigung der Rechteinhaber. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.
They said that Kosh spent too much time among the younger races. They said that he allowed sentimentality to weaken discipline. They said that, in failing to keep himself above the conflict, he revealed how far he had fallen.
Now he would pay the price.
In his simple residence on Babylon 5, Kosh waited. He knew what would happen, as did all the Vorlons. Yet they would do nothing to stop it, and he must do nothing to stop it. He must pay this price, so that others would not.
It was as the Vorlons had always professed: Some must be sacrificed, so that all could be saved.
The fabulists had understood, better than any Vorlon, this harrowing truth at the core of all Vorlon teachings. They had refused alliance with the forces of chaos, had upheld their principles, though it would mean their extinction. They sacrificed themselves for the good of the galaxy. And in so doing, they showed Kosh the way.
For it was not only the younger races who must sacrifice, he now understood, but the Vorlons as well.
All that the others said of him was true. He had spent too much time among the younger races: too much time watching them struggle, under his distant guidance, toward order; too much time watching the enemy undermine any hard-earned progress they made; too much time watching them suffer and die. The rules of engagement, formulated eons ago through the mediation of the First One, dictated that the Vorlons and the maelstrom would launch no direct attacks upon each other. Kosh had broken those rules. He had come down from on high and stood beside the younger ones, had fought with them.
Now he would die with them.
Already the stench of chaos grew stronger, as the enemy advanced through the station toward him.
In the face of approaching death, those of the younger races attempted to evaluate their lives, find significance in their deaths. Kosh had never contemplated his own mortality. Yet he knew that at the end of a being, one could judge that being’s importance, his accomplishments. Looking back on his existence in this manner, he found surprisingly little of worth. Of all his acts, he felt truly proud only of his last, the one that had precipitated his end.
He must make certain that Sheridan felt no guilt for it. Sheridan had pushed him to action—more evidence that he spent too much time among the younger races, allowing one so inferior to affect his course. But he no longer thought of Sheridan as his inferior. In Kosh’s mind, Sheridan had become something else, had risen to a new level of growth, one Kosh did not fully understand. Kosh had even come to believe that if ever the cycle of war and death was to end, if ever the forces of order were to be definitively proven superior, it would be through Sheridan. Sheridan had not the wisdom or the knowledge or the discipline of a Vorlon, yet he had other qualities, Human qualities, that seemed to carry their own value and worth. Among those was guilt, an emotion long studied by the Vorlons. Kosh did not want Sheridan to be crippled by it.
Sheridan had done no more than speak aloud the argument Kosh had many times made to himself. From the mouth of Sheridan, though, the argument took on a simplicity and a power Kosh obscured behind subtleties and rationalizations.
How many people have already died fighting this war of yours? Sheridan said. How many more will die before you come down off that mountain and get involved?
For the first time in millennia, fear governed Kosh’s action. He struck out at Sheridan three times, the discharges of his essence nearly killing the Human.
Impudent, Kosh said.
Incorrect, Kosh said.
We are not prepared yet, Kosh said.
Yet it was only Kosh who was not prepared, not prepared to die.
The ancient enemy ascended through the station to his level, bent their steps toward him.
Sheridan had simply spoken the truth. As Kosh had stood on high and watched, the fabulists had gone, and they had been but the first in an escalating series of losses.
The forces of chaos had begun by forming secret alliances with some of the younger races, encouraging and provoking them into vicious wars with their neighbors. Now the enemy openly attacked the younger races, killing at will. And from a planet near the enemy’s home on the rim, Kosh’s buoys had sung a disturbing song. The two fabulists who served chaos were rebuilding an ancient force that hadn’t been used for many millennia. Billions already had died, and billions more would die. The maelstrom hungered to subsume all.
Only in banding together to fight the maelstrom could the majority of the younger races survive. They would not fight, though, if they believed themselves overwhelmed by an invincible enemy. They must have hope they could win, and that hope, as Sheridan had argued, could only be provided by the Vorlons. And so Kosh had brought the Vorlons into the war, had engaged the enemy directly for the first time since their ancient agreement had been reached. With that one battle, he had provided Sheridan the victory necessary to draw the others into alliance.
Now the enemy would demand recompense for the Vorlons’ transgression.
Sheridan had not understood what he had asked. Kosh had told him: There is a price to pay. I will not be there to help you when you go to Z’ha’dum.
Still Sheridan had not understood. The Human believed he himself must pay the price. He believed that, if ever he went to the enemy’s home, Kosh would withhold help out of anger. Yet Kosh would not be unwilling to help; he would be unable.
The enemy was close now, the stench of chaos saturating his senses.
Kosh poured himself into the sleek brown and green shell of his encounter suit. No disguise was necessary, but the hard casement would provide a few moments’ defense.
Death was harder to accept than he had thought. Vorlons rarely died; in the last millennium, only one had perished. He feared how the others would proceed in this war without his counsel. He had placed them upon a narrow path. They must participate in the war only when absolutely necessary; they must not dominate it. Yet he did not believe the Vorlons had the will to follow that path. Some hoped that Kosh’s death would bring the conflict back into equilibrium, allow them to return to the ancient rules of engagement, to resume their manipulations from on high. But a growing number believed Kosh’s action the first step toward a total, final war with the enemy, one that would end with the complete annihilation of the forces of chaos and everything they had touched. In such a total war, Kosh knew, the Vorlons would exterminate as many of the younger races as the maelstrom.
He wished he could remain among them, guide them. If his aide were nearby, he could pour the core of his essence into her, as he sometimes did. She had been modified and trained to carry him, concealed inside her, when he required it. No other on the station had the strength to carry even a small portion of his core. If she were here, though, the enemy would have first sought her out and killed her, to prevent any such transfer. Kosh was glad he had sent her away.
The ancient enemy stood now outside his door. Three of them, and their servant, the pestilence Morden. Morden tampered with the lock.
It was time.
From the core of his essence, Kosh reached out. First, he slipped into the song of his ship. It lay docked in a special bay on the station. It was resting, humming softly to itself of the beauty of order, the satisfaction of service, the harmony of the spheres. He directed it to take no action in the coming moments, when it might sense he was threatened.
A dissonance entered the ship’s song, and its tempo quickened. It did not...
Now he would pay the price.
In his simple residence on Babylon 5, Kosh waited. He knew what would happen, as did all the Vorlons. Yet they would do nothing to stop it, and he must do nothing to stop it. He must pay this price, so that others would not.
It was as the Vorlons had always professed: Some must be sacrificed, so that all could be saved.
The fabulists had understood, better than any Vorlon, this harrowing truth at the core of all Vorlon teachings. They had refused alliance with the forces of chaos, had upheld their principles, though it would mean their extinction. They sacrificed themselves for the good of the galaxy. And in so doing, they showed Kosh the way.
For it was not only the younger races who must sacrifice, he now understood, but the Vorlons as well.
All that the others said of him was true. He had spent too much time among the younger races: too much time watching them struggle, under his distant guidance, toward order; too much time watching the enemy undermine any hard-earned progress they made; too much time watching them suffer and die. The rules of engagement, formulated eons ago through the mediation of the First One, dictated that the Vorlons and the maelstrom would launch no direct attacks upon each other. Kosh had broken those rules. He had come down from on high and stood beside the younger ones, had fought with them.
Now he would die with them.
Already the stench of chaos grew stronger, as the enemy advanced through the station toward him.
In the face of approaching death, those of the younger races attempted to evaluate their lives, find significance in their deaths. Kosh had never contemplated his own mortality. Yet he knew that at the end of a being, one could judge that being’s importance, his accomplishments. Looking back on his existence in this manner, he found surprisingly little of worth. Of all his acts, he felt truly proud only of his last, the one that had precipitated his end.
He must make certain that Sheridan felt no guilt for it. Sheridan had pushed him to action—more evidence that he spent too much time among the younger races, allowing one so inferior to affect his course. But he no longer thought of Sheridan as his inferior. In Kosh’s mind, Sheridan had become something else, had risen to a new level of growth, one Kosh did not fully understand. Kosh had even come to believe that if ever the cycle of war and death was to end, if ever the forces of order were to be definitively proven superior, it would be through Sheridan. Sheridan had not the wisdom or the knowledge or the discipline of a Vorlon, yet he had other qualities, Human qualities, that seemed to carry their own value and worth. Among those was guilt, an emotion long studied by the Vorlons. Kosh did not want Sheridan to be crippled by it.
Sheridan had done no more than speak aloud the argument Kosh had many times made to himself. From the mouth of Sheridan, though, the argument took on a simplicity and a power Kosh obscured behind subtleties and rationalizations.
How many people have already died fighting this war of yours? Sheridan said. How many more will die before you come down off that mountain and get involved?
For the first time in millennia, fear governed Kosh’s action. He struck out at Sheridan three times, the discharges of his essence nearly killing the Human.
Impudent, Kosh said.
Incorrect, Kosh said.
We are not prepared yet, Kosh said.
Yet it was only Kosh who was not prepared, not prepared to die.
The ancient enemy ascended through the station to his level, bent their steps toward him.
Sheridan had simply spoken the truth. As Kosh had stood on high and watched, the fabulists had gone, and they had been but the first in an escalating series of losses.
The forces of chaos had begun by forming secret alliances with some of the younger races, encouraging and provoking them into vicious wars with their neighbors. Now the enemy openly attacked the younger races, killing at will. And from a planet near the enemy’s home on the rim, Kosh’s buoys had sung a disturbing song. The two fabulists who served chaos were rebuilding an ancient force that hadn’t been used for many millennia. Billions already had died, and billions more would die. The maelstrom hungered to subsume all.
Only in banding together to fight the maelstrom could the majority of the younger races survive. They would not fight, though, if they believed themselves overwhelmed by an invincible enemy. They must have hope they could win, and that hope, as Sheridan had argued, could only be provided by the Vorlons. And so Kosh had brought the Vorlons into the war, had engaged the enemy directly for the first time since their ancient agreement had been reached. With that one battle, he had provided Sheridan the victory necessary to draw the others into alliance.
Now the enemy would demand recompense for the Vorlons’ transgression.
Sheridan had not understood what he had asked. Kosh had told him: There is a price to pay. I will not be there to help you when you go to Z’ha’dum.
Still Sheridan had not understood. The Human believed he himself must pay the price. He believed that, if ever he went to the enemy’s home, Kosh would withhold help out of anger. Yet Kosh would not be unwilling to help; he would be unable.
The enemy was close now, the stench of chaos saturating his senses.
Kosh poured himself into the sleek brown and green shell of his encounter suit. No disguise was necessary, but the hard casement would provide a few moments’ defense.
Death was harder to accept than he had thought. Vorlons rarely died; in the last millennium, only one had perished. He feared how the others would proceed in this war without his counsel. He had placed them upon a narrow path. They must participate in the war only when absolutely necessary; they must not dominate it. Yet he did not believe the Vorlons had the will to follow that path. Some hoped that Kosh’s death would bring the conflict back into equilibrium, allow them to return to the ancient rules of engagement, to resume their manipulations from on high. But a growing number believed Kosh’s action the first step toward a total, final war with the enemy, one that would end with the complete annihilation of the forces of chaos and everything they had touched. In such a total war, Kosh knew, the Vorlons would exterminate as many of the younger races as the maelstrom.
He wished he could remain among them, guide them. If his aide were nearby, he could pour the core of his essence into her, as he sometimes did. She had been modified and trained to carry him, concealed inside her, when he required it. No other on the station had the strength to carry even a small portion of his core. If she were here, though, the enemy would have first sought her out and killed her, to prevent any such transfer. Kosh was glad he had sent her away.
The ancient enemy stood now outside his door. Three of them, and their servant, the pestilence Morden. Morden tampered with the lock.
It was time.
From the core of his essence, Kosh reached out. First, he slipped into the song of his ship. It lay docked in a special bay on the station. It was resting, humming softly to itself of the beauty of order, the satisfaction of service, the harmony of the spheres. He directed it to take no action in the coming moments, when it might sense he was threatened.
A dissonance entered the ship’s song, and its tempo quickened. It did not...
