Quantum Shadows

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  THIS IS THE LAST CHANCE FOR THOSE WHO REJECT THE RULE OF LAW. THROW DOWN YOUR WEAPONS. ALL THOSE WHO SURRENDER WILL BE RELOCATED WITHOUT HARM OR REEDUCATION. THOSE WHO REFUSE WILL BE PURIFIED IN THE HOLY FLAME OF GOD.

  Corvyn gathered the shadows about himself, studying the Plaza of the Redeemer, where figures in dark gray had taken cover where they could. His heavy breathing rasped in his own ears as he tried to ignore the smoky oily air that seared his mouth and lungs and glanced toward the middle of the Plaza, where rose the Great Obelisk, a white four-sided shimmering lance that pierced the very sky.

  A brilliant blue laser slashed past him, striking the white marble of the Bank of the Redeemer, where white mist boiled off the stone, then congealed into stone droplets that pelted down on the pavement of the Plaza. At the whirr of electrofans, he looked back over his shoulder to see a white-and-gold skimmer of the Seraphim enter the square from the side boulevard, but it barely made it into the Plaza before the men and women in dark gray targeted it, and three violet-white energy bolts converged on the cockpit, shredding it into shards of carbon composite, and disintegrating anything organic within.

  Corvyn flattened himself against the smooth white permastone of the Plaza moments before the release of energy from the skimmer flung the remaining nanocarbon shards in all directions, some of which fragments sliced through figures in the dark gray uniforms of the Resistance.

  Yet he heard and sensed another skimmer, and one after that, both heading for the Plaza, both crewed by holy jihadists.

  The angelship, seemingly secure behind its screens, either did not sense or chose to ignore the dartship until it was too late. Carried by the magwebs of the dartship, angelship and dartship smashed into the Great Obelisk, where their combined energies, mass, and velocity cut through the middle of the obelisk, leaving a truncated stump of a mere hundred meters, still looming over the partly energy-melted and blackened stones wrenched from the edifice instantly and strewn across the Plaza, slamming into buildings and crushing figures in both gray and white.

  Two more angelships appeared, and another announcement boomed forth.

  THE MERCY OF THE REDEEMER IS NOT ENDLESS FOR THE UNREPENTANT. PREPARE TO MEET IBLIS.

  Immediately, lasers began to scour the Plaza and the buildings that surrounded it, vaporizing anything and anyone unprotected.

  Once more, if unseen by the angelships, a dartship appeared high overhead and dived toward the Plaza of the Redeemer.

  Corvyn understood, almost too late, what that dark dartship carried, and he gathered his shadows around him just before the radiance of a small nova turned the Plaza of the Redeemer—and everything else in a fifty-mille radius—into solar plasma.

  When he emerged elsewhere, tears streamed from his eyes, and not from the glare from the now-distant cataclysm that confirmed the first step in the latest Fall.

  The latest for now.

  The ways that Raven flies are not the roads well-trod

  by men whose eyes are chained with lies from God.

  38

  By the time Corvyn made his way back to the ferry slip on the Mekong River, and waited another half hour for the ferry to arrive, it was definitely late afternoon when he rode the electrobike onto the black ferryboat. He could not help but recall that black was the color signifying evils to be overcome, at least for the Buddhists, which he supposed made black appropriate for crossing the turbulent upper reaches of the Mekong, as well as for what awaited him in the days ahead, one way or another, especially after his encounters at the unnamed village of belief.

  On the opposite side of the river lay Sunyata, the yellow city of the Middle Way. Cut into the tall hill farther to the east of the city proper was a massive red stone Buddha, protecting and overlooking the Mayi Devi Temple, an edifice of brilliant white stone, which in turn overlooked Sunyata. The city proper, perhaps half as large as Tian, stretched a mere ten milles from north to south along the Mekong. To the north, Corvyn could just make out the lower peaks of the mountainous hills that eventually gave way to the Celestial Mountains and the howling winds that would make them impassable if the Lances of Heaven did not.

  Corvyn’s eyes fell upon the handful of travelers scattered across the front lower deck of the ferry, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He doubted that he would discover much from Upali, the keeper of the Vinaya, given that the generations of those who held that name and the powers of a hegemon had been more of the temperament to allow information to come to them, rather than to seek it out, but there was always that possibility. He would visit the Mayi Devi Temple for that reason, among others, including the probability that Mara might be lurking nearby, or perhaps Vajrapani or Mahakala.

  As the ferry pulled into the yellow stone slip on the east side of the river, Corvyn debated himself over whether he should cut his journey short—especially since the brief words Sunya had offered him back in the lands of the Saints bothered him even more now than when she had spoken them, and he was afraid he knew why—that some power in Varanasi was part of what the black tridents represented, although he still had doubts that it was Shiva. The trident, more properly the trishula, was Shiva’s symbol, and its use was far too obvious, and Shiva was anything but obvious.

  Even before the ferry docked on the east side of the river, Corvyn had decided to make his visit in Sunyata as brief as possible so that he could get to Varanasi sooner.

  As soon as the ramp extended and was in place, Corvyn eased the electrobike forward and onto the yellow stone lane leading to the upper city. Unlike the buildings in Keifeng and especially Tian, the buildings here were lower, and none seemed taller than four or five stories. While yellow predominated, there were more than a few houses and structures in shades of green and blue.

  Before long, he located the Zen Aaraam, a hotel whose walls were a light blue stone and which he had picked because it was not all that far—less than a half mille—from the grounds of the Mayi Devi Temple. He entered the hotel, confirmed the arrangements, and was escorted to the small two-room suite on the side away from the temple. Accommodations in Sunyata were not so sumptuous as those in Tian, Keifeng, Los Santos, or even those he recalled from past visits to Varanasi, but his two rooms looked more than comfortable, despite the largely bare blue stone walls, the simple polished goldenwood blinds that served as curtains, and the plain dark blue quilt that covered the bed for two. In time, he would like a good night’s sleep, a sleep where his dreams weren’t too vivid, but sleep would have to wait.

  After setting his cases down and removing some items, he washed up and left his room, stopping only for a brief bite of noodles and mushrooms at the small café in the Zen Aaraam before taking to the shadows and making his way through them to the grounds of the temple where Upali would be, somewhere, since he was the keeper of the Vinaya, or at least the accepted surviving version of it.

  Corvyn had not reached the outer wall of the temple before he encountered within the shadows another presence of power, with a certain residual sensuality. Not far distant was a second power, hard-edged, and most likely endowed with certain powers of possible destruction. He recognized both.

  “We should talk, Raven,” offered the first.

  Corvyn did not ask why Mara hovered around the temple. Mara’s mission and function had never changed—to tempt those seeking enlightenment into less aetherial satisfactions. “We? You and who else?”

  “Mahakala will join us, whether I like it or not.”

  “Then lead the way to a suitable place.”

  “The west garden is empty at present.”

  “And Upali?”

  “You can always seek him out after we talk, even if you choose not to talk. Whether he will choose to listen is another question. I am not the one to guess as to what one such as he will do.”

  “The west garden, then.” Corvyn let Mara lead the way through the shadows remaining between them and their destination.

  Mahakala followed.

  The three emerged from the shadows ne
arly at the same time in the west garden, a garden totally shaded in the last moments before complete sunset. A blue stone circle lay in the middle of an oval pool. Framed by the center of that circle and on the far side of the pool was a perfectly shaped and ancient yew tree in the center of a low hill behind which rose a tiered garden.

  For several moments, Corvyn studied the stone circle and what it framed, then turned to Mara, who appeared as a well-proportioned man in a bright blue high-collared jacket and trousers. His skin had a slight blue-green tinge, and his eyes seemed to be all colors and none.

  Mahakala was black-skinned with flowing yellow hair and beard, bright red lips and eyes, of which there were three, and wore a shifting black cloak that merged with the miasma of black smoke that surrounded him.

  “What did you have in mind in talking to me?” Corvyn asked Mara.

  “I could say that those who cling to vain perceptions wander Heaven offending people,” offered Mara. “Or that all created things perish, even this world that all call Heaven.”

  “Misquoting Siddhartha again?” said Corvyn, hoping to provoke a response that would prove informative.

  “This Heaven is not Heaven, but earth, and that was what Siddhartha meant. But you should know that, Raven.”

  “I thought you were the tempter.”

  “You cannot be tempted by the flesh, nor by wealth, nor by eternal life. With what else can I tempt you besides facts and logic?”

  “You’re more than a crow, raven of the shadows,” interjected Mahakala, “but all your hopping about won’t bring enlightenment.”

  Corvyn laughed softly. “Siddhartha said that we become what we think, and Mara has thought long about both temptation and enlightenment.”

  “You have rejected enlightenment far longer than…”

  “Than you can believe?” Corvyn smiled. “I haven’t rejected enlightenment. Let’s just say that I have a different view of enlightenment.”

  “Your view of enlightenment is based on the idea that the more knowledge about everything that you gather, the closer to enlightenment you will be, but all you gather are the perceptions of reality. The entire universe is nothing but space and energy, and what you gather of it are merely perceptions of perceptions.”

  “That’s a largely accurate description of the universe on a quantum level, if oversimplified,” agreed Corvyn. “Accurate, but meaningless. Even Siddhartha, in rejecting the perceptions of his senses, accepted the perceptions of his mind.” He turned slightly as flames seemed ready to stream from the Protector. “And you, Mahakala?”

  “You cling to those perceptions, Raven, and you only lose what you cling to.”

  “The root of suffering being attachment?” That was true enough, Corvyn well knew, yet he must persist in his attachment.

  But before he could even think of expressing such a thought, most abruptly, both Mara and Mahakala vanished into the shadows.

  Interesting, but not exactly productive. Corvyn returned to the shadows, easing his way through the temple until he came to a small room in which were set a table and two chairs. There Upali waited.

  Corvyn appeared, noting the teapot and cups set on the table.

  Upali was dark-skinned and black-eyed, slight of build, and wore a yellow robe. “I thought you might join me, Raven.” He gestured toward the table.

  “Thank you.” Corvyn seated himself. “Might I ask why you expected me?”

  “Why should I not expect you? There is a black trident burned into the main hall of the temple. Whether challenge or declaration, its presence reveals that the hegemons are declining in unity. Those are the first elements of the divination. You are the second. Also, Mahakala knows the ways of ravens, and he said you would be coming. All things often come to those who wait. Not always, but often.” Upali filled the two handleless cups with tea and nodded for Corvyn to take one.

  Corvyn did so, then waited for Upali to lift his cup. After that, he said, “Thank you. What else can you tell me?”

  “You know all that I could say. You’ve mourned over more corpses created by erroneous perceptions than anyone.”

  “And you have no advice or information?”

  Upali sipped from his cup. “Advice? That suggests you will act, whatever I say. Blameless actions are among the greatest blessings. When dealing with the other hegemons, one cannot be blameless. As for information … the trident did not come from here, nor from the lands of the Maid, nor, I can surmise, from the Dark One of the Skeptics.”

  “Has a poetess of the Maid visited Sunyata?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. Why would she? We neither oppose nor support her view of what is. She neither supports nor opposes what we perceive.”

  That meant that the poetess had not been in Sunyata, for all happenings in the Buddhist lands were known to Upali. And that suggested, even more strongly, that Corvyn needed to set out for Varanasi in the morning. “What can you tell me that’s new about Shiva?”

  “Nothing. Shiva is Shiva. He does not change, nor does the chaos around him, for it is inherent in all compounded things, not just in his trishula.”

  Corvyn smiled wryly. “He doesn’t accept that existence is impermanence?”

  Upali smiled enigmatically and began to fade.

  Corvyn stood, waiting until he was alone in the chamber. Then he used the shadows to make his way to the main hall of the temple, where he beheld yet another black trident burned into the stone. He studied it carefully, noting that it was no different from any of the others. Then he dropped into the shadows and returned to the Zen Aaraam.

  While Corvyn would have liked to set out for Varanasi immediately, he did need sleep, and, as Upali could have reminded him, he should receive all opinions and evidence equally and wisely, without haste.

  But you may not have that luxury much longer.

  The raven takes, the raven gives,

  and this god dies, and that god lives.

  39

  After three very, very long days on the electrobike, when Corvyn neared the Ganges River, it was past midafternoon. He rode through gently undulating lands on which a variety of crops were being grown, as well as some rather large orchards, at least one of which, near to the road, held nearly ripe plums. He did not see any apple trees. The houses on the steads were all modest and solar-powered, with occasional outbuildings. The numbers of habitations had not dwindled on his progress toward Varanasi as they had in the lands of Tian.

  Less than a mille ahead were low hills that blocked his view to the east, but he knew he was less than fifteen milles from the river. When he reached the point ahead where the gray stone road leveled off before beginning its descent to the river, he should be able to see part of the City of Shiva.

  He still wondered whether the poetess who called herself Erinna had come to Varanasi, and exactly what ties she had to the Maid, or if she was a counter to Bran Denu … or more. As always, he had more questions than answers.

  As far as he was from Sunyata, there was little traffic on the road, although Corvyn was somewhat surprised that there wasn’t some coming from Varanasi, but then there had never been much love lost between the two lands, for reasons long lost in history—except to Corvyn and a very few others. The air was slightly drier once he started up the grade toward the low pass in the hills, and with that dryness he became aware of a certain locus of power ahead. Although he could not discern the source, it likely originated in Varanasi … but other sources were certainly possible. While that power ahead of him might have been coincidental, Corvyn doubted that, and the fact that its location was in the line of sight from Varanasi was also suggestive, even if the land he now crossed and all that to the west of the river belonged to Sunyata.

  Corvyn slowed the electrobike as he reached the flat stretch of road at the top of the hill.

  A figure stood in the middle of the road some hundred yards ahead—or rather sat astride an enormous blue peacock. Interestingly, Kartikeya had manifested himself as merely a slightly outsiz
ed and absurdly handsome, bare-chested, dark-haired, and dark-eyed human with a single head, rather than the traditional six.

  “Greetings, God of Battles,” offered Corvyn as he eased the electrobike to a stop some five yards away from the peacock and made certain preparations for what he knew would happen. “To what do I owe your presence?”

  “To my sense of propriety, evil raven.”

  “Even in your faith, I’m only a harbinger. I’ve never gloried in the slaughter of thousands and millions. I’ve only warned them of what might come.”

  “What you think might come, and not what should come.”

  “As with many events, that is a matter of perspective.”

  “You are not welcome in Varanasi. I will refrain from destroying you if you return to your eyrie immediately.”

  “You’re threatening me, and doing so on a land that is not even of your faith. That’s certainly an example of impropriety, for all your claims to the contrary. It’s also against the tenets of Heaven. And killing the Valkyries so far from Sunyata was more than improper.” Corvyn managed to reply only in a tone of annoyance, rather than with the anger he felt.

  “I say again. You are not welcome in Varanasi.” A long and very pointed spear appeared in Kartikeya’s hand, infused with lambent blue.

  “Ravens go where they must,” replied Corvyn. “And not even the god of battles can change that. But before I deal with you, tell me this. Why did you kill the Valkyries?”

  “Because once, at least, they were your handmaidens. They refused to return to the beliefs they once held.”

  “Gods shouldn’t lie, Kartikeya, especially the spoiled eldest children of hegemons. You never even asked them.”

  Kartikeya moved, but long before the spear could reach Corvyn, he drew the shadows around himself and the electrobike, although including the bike took more energy, but he didn’t want to go to the trouble of obtaining another or the inconvenience of doing without it—not again.