with concern. It wanted them both to live.
Galen found it hard to think clearly. He pushed himself into a sitting position, swaying unevenly. Each breath seemed an immense effort. He had to get to the hiding place. As he thought to conjure a platform, one pushed up beneath them. A light globe appeared to illuminate the tunnel. Then he started searching for a way up to the surface.
The walls were carved with line upon line of runes. As he passed through tunnel after tunnel, he began to wonder why the Shadows would have used such a primitive method to record their thoughts, and the tech shared his curiosity. It wanted to understand. He began to record the engravings, and to translate them. The entire underground complex was a monument, he realized, a monument to their beliefs, their philosophy. The Shadows wanted to be remembered, to be followed, to be vindicated. These were their answers to the questions posed by life.
Long ago, they must have begun by asking those questions. At some point, however, they had stopped asking questions and begun imposing answers. The same thing had happened with the Vorlons.
Most intelligent beings aren't comfortable living in a state of uncertainty, Elric had told him, long ago.
Galen, too, had settled upon his answers, at some point along the way. Despite his repeated attempts to do good, he had decided that he was destructive, that he'd become a mage to kill, and there was no need to examine further.
He found that he was sitting on the tunnel floor. His platform was gone, the Shadow skin stretched to encompass Morden lying prone beside him. It seemed as if he had always sat here, and as if he always would. He had no energy to move, and he could think of no reason to move. Before him, on the wall, was inscribed a simple sentence,