by David Bowles
The great ramatini of Ona ra-Shamanga had taught Meji that the self was not bounded by the flesh, but extended into the exterior world. In Tenshi Koroma, they had found the perfect partner for the reformation of Jitsu. For a time, the vision of the second Oracle teetered on the brink of realization.
Tenshi’s uncle, however, had proven a ruthless and cunnng opponent, a champion of Dominatudan’s severe conservatism. Now Brando had discovered just how far the fundamentalists were willing to go. Santo Koroma was a murderer, many times over. A traitor.
And Meji was wholly unprepared to fight that sort of inhuman blaze.
The Oracle herself had chosen Santo Koroma as the ratowanin, and part of the Path was the acceptance of the leaders the Ogdoad permitted to rule. Meji wanted to believe that despite the atrocities that the archon was perpetuating, Samanei’s hand was moving every element of the situation, guided by the Eight. For a time, they retained hope that enlightenment would yet come of the apparent evil.
But now word had come over the infotainment feeds—Samanei had sent the Close against Jinja ra-Shamanga. Were it not for an unexpected alliance of clerics from the Distant Isles and young Reformers on the clean-up crews, the guild would have already dislodged the ramatini.
She foresaw this. Or the second Oracle did.
Samanei, however—what possible motive could she have for hurting Hekima Umchawi?
A low beeping from his terminal notified Meji that there was an incoming message, government priority level seven, encoded with an old and secret Reformer encryption algorithm.
Brando.
Apprehensive, they reached out and thumbed the connection open.
Brando D’Angelo’s face surged from the terminal surface as if rushing to push his entire body through as well. Before their exchange earlier today, it had been several years since the two had spoken, though Meji, since his appointment as Minister of Education eighteen months ago, had seen the ex-professor on occasion around the complex of boxy government offices in the capital.
Brando avoided meeting with his old friends: Modupe Oduyoye, who’d taken over as head of Ra-Koreji when Brando had resigned, had speculated on several occasions, when he and Meji had lunched together, that continuing old relationships didn’t pain the ex-professor. Instead, those friendships threatened to ease Brando’s pain, an eventuality that the man couldn’t accept, at least not until he’d seen justice done.
Brando’s face bore the scars of his Killing Dance. A huge gash across his forehead leaked droplets of blood, his nose was obviously broken, mottled bruises and burn marks seemed to form a pattern, as if he’d painted himself for battle. On one side of his head, his short-cropped hair had been singed to the skin, where a nasty-looking furrow led like a road from his ear to the back of his skull.
“Brando! Are you okay, child?”
Brando smiled, the first time Meji had heard of such a reaction from him in years. “I took care of our demimundo problem, Acharya-zin. One of the ones responsible for their deaths has been brought to justice.”
Meji winced but nodded.
“Be enlightened: this is good news. But I pray your dance is done.”
“Don’t worry, Minister. The CPCC will be handling things on the syndicate front from now on. I am out of that field permanently.”
“You’re where right now?”
“In a shuttle, crossing the dateline into night. In about thirty minutes I’m gonna be setting down near the jinja, and that’s what I want to talk to you about.”
The jinja? What does he want there?
“Brando, that’s an unusual destination. In fact, if you aren’t an arojin, it’s off-limits.”
Brando nodded. “That’s why I need you to get on a transport and meet me there.”
Meji stiffened. “Why?”
“I need to speak to the Oracle. It’s urgent. I’ll probably be arrested soon, so I need to see Her before that happens.”
“But you still haven’t told me why. Seeing the Oracle is not something permitted to just anyone.”
Brando’s face began to betray desperation and impatience. Meji began to worry. What if, the Ogdoad forbid it, Brando’s Killing Dance was not done? If the wende was spinning him toward more death?
“It’s a private matter, Minister, but suffice it to say I need the absolution only She can provide.” After a pause, he added, “Santo is with her, isn’t he? That’s what you’re afraid of.”
“He is, yes. I know you want revenge on him as well, but you can’t kill him, child.”
Brando sighed. “I don’t want to. I want to turn him over to the CPCCAF before he does anymore harm. I won’t have any weapons on me.”
Meji arched their right eyebrow. “Given your strength, I’m betting you could kill him with your bare hands.”
Brando lifted his left arm. It ended in a scarred stump. “Hand. Singular. I’m in no condition to fight. Help me bring him to justice, Arojin-zin.”
“Okay, Brando-shi. I will. But your interest in the Oracle still concerns me. Is it because she spoke with Tenshi’s voice?” Meji asked. “Is that it? Are you hoping to speak to your translated wife, Brando-shi?”
Brando said nothing for a moment. Then he swallowed heavily.
“You know what Tenshi wanted for her sister, Meji-shi. I can’t do it without you.”
Meji closed their eyes for a moment, thinking of the Close attacking the ramatini.
“Right. From internal government memoranda, the Oracle and the Archon are secluded away somewhere in the honden, the innermost part of the jinja. I have been only once. It may be difficult. But Samanei has sent most of the guild that protects her away. We should be able to gain access.” They stood, nodding. “See you at the gate.”
Twenty minutes later a government transport dropped Minister Pishan off at the small tarmac adjacent the jinja. Leaning against a transformer box through which the sanctuary’s energy was supplied, Brando raised his gloved right hand in a greeting. The squadman was a disaster: he wore a Brotherhood jumpsuit and heavy boots, but the suit was ripped and scorched in places and the boots had been taped up with emergency compression tape, the sort used on ships for quick engineering repairs. His left arm hung uselessly at his side. Tourniquets were cinched tightly about the arm and Brando’s legs, and his left shoulder had been wrapped in compression tape.
“By the Eight,” the arojin said as he approached, “you look horrible!”
“Yes. Heavy doses of drugs and the nanodocs dancing in my tissues right now are managing to block the pain pretty well, but I know I’m messed up. You just see the outside. I imagine my organs are in worse shape. It will probably take months for me to get back to normal, whatever that is.”
At the gate they had surprisingly little trouble. The omedeyo guard looked at Brando, checked something on the data pad they were holding, and waved them through without a word.
“Okay.” Brando shook his head. “That was weird, and too easy.”
And so it was at nearly every stop along the way from the outer circles of the sanctuary toward the honden at its center. Brando asked one of the attendants why they were being permitted to pass without question.
“The Oracle told us you would come. We’ve been expecting you.”
This made Brando more nervous than a firefight would have. What nefarious trap did Santo have waiting for him? What sort of death awaited him in the depths of this supposedly holy place? Brando discovered he suddenly didn’t care. He had a purpose, a central purpose, for being here. If he could accomplish that task, it did not matter so much that his hopes, the other future he’d planned, might not be fulfilled. He’d given up all claim to happiness long ago: revenge, justice… that was his reason for existing now. Were he to survive, so much the better. He would love the chance to be able to try it all again and do it right this time. But if that dream could not be realized, he would be satisfied with seeing Santo’s corpse before his own death.
They were stopped by another omedeyo guard of t
he Close in front of a metal, airlock-type entranceway.
“The Oracle ordered me,” they grunted, “to tell you that you have a choice: you can go through the ritual ablution or you can go on like you are. She recommended you to take the first option. She told me, and I’m quoting, ‘Tell him it is better to be clean when one does the work of the Eight.’”
Meji glanced at Brando. “I’ll help you, child. Let’s get you washed up.”
The procedure was long. Painful for Brando. Heartbreaking for Meji.
At last the archon draped white linen robes on his student’s thick and scarred limbs, his wounds having been washed and medskin applied them all.
Meji led him through the brief mantra:
Ante ra-Eidan, tani tenshi to roho. Yonke iruju nikdeharu.
Before the Eight, only spark and soul. I leave every illusion behind.
While reciting the words, Meji’s eyes fell on the bandaged stub at the end of Brando’s left arm. As much as they longed to be rid of the flesh, they could not imagine losing a hand. This realization struck them as significant, and for years to come they would ponder its implications for their own quantum enlightenment.
Revealing that the Oracle was neither in the Black Room or the White, the guard indicated that they should follow a large, spidery-limbed chirurgic that was to check the Oracle’s physical recovery from her surgery.
“Surgery?” Meji wondered aloud. “What kind of surgery would the Oracle need, and who would order it done to her?”
Brando clenched his one hand into a fist. “We’re about to find out.”
As they stepped through the irising entrance to the honden, where the bones of Domina Ditis still lay in the precise spot Dedalo Mostrenco had buried them nearly two centuries earlier, Meji almost wished Brando had decided to bring a gun.
CHAPTER 48
The soft whirring and clanking of the chirurgic’s progress through a series of twisting passages and large, empty chambers set Brando’s mind to working. What was Santo’s plan? Why and how the image of Jeini Andrade on the station? The exploding panel? The sudden loss of gravity? Words spoken by one of the Beijing brothers drifted back into his consciousness: Yen assured me that in two days there won’t be any more of these mafia types on the station. It’s all been arranged, seriously.
Was Santo working with Yen Bandera to double-cross the Brotherhood? What could the archon possibly pay that ancient ronin to make him risk his life against the most powerful organization of the demimundo?
A chill passed over him, and he realized that the chirurgic kept stealing glances at him, odd behavior for an only partly sentient medical robot. Like a boy caught eyeing the girl of his dreams, the AI swiveled its head to face the direction they were headed.
“What?” Brando demanded gruffly. He wasn’t particularly fond of AIs, having fought many of the illegal hunks of metal over the last seven years.
Before the chirurgic could attempt to answer, they came to a shimmering force field. The robot motioned at them in a oddly human fashion and stepped through the curtain. Brando and Meji followed.
The inner sanctum of the honden was simply a round, high-ceilinged chamber. At the far end a rectangular aperture was cut into the floor, with steps leading down, perhaps to the remains of Domina Ditis. In the middle of the cavernous room was a raised dais on the steps of which sat the Oracle.
Brando’s heart ached suddenly: She was so much like Tenshi, so identical physically to the woman who had made him a man. He checked an urge to run to her and embrace her.
On the dais itself, in a throne-like chair, with a portable terminal on his lap, sat Santo Koroma. He looked up in utter shock as the other two men stepped out from behind the towering chirurgic.
“But—” he began. Words simply would not come to him. His eyes watered and flashed, as if he were trying to fight off a mix of emotions and comprehend what it was he saw before him.
Samanei stood and spoke.
“Koweke. Thank Domina you came.”
It took Brando a second to realize she was addressing him. Brother-in-law.
“This monster,” she gestured at Santo without looking back at him, “has had me in his claws for so many years that I’d lost hope that anybody would ever come and take me away from him. But that’s what you’re going to do, no? Tell me you’re here to save me.”
Brando couldn’t speak. He nodded.
“You’ll have to kill him. It won’t be hard: he’s old and has no weapons. The fighting he knows is long distance, via pawns. That’s how he killed my sister: he had her assassinated and then gloated about it in front of me.”
Santo’s eyes continued to flash and leak, but they also began to narrow in anger. He seemed to be understanding something, as if a reality he’d never been aware of had been revealed, the artificial guises ripped off the world in a single, painful jerk.
“Brando,” he groaned, his voice squeezed out of a throat constricted by terror and rage, his breath coming in ragged gasps, “I did terrible things to you. I won’t deny them, nor tell you that I’m sorry, because I find you to be execrable and beneath me. But listen to me carefully: do not trust this thing before you. I don’t know what to call it, but it spent the last twenty-five years lying to me, manipulating me. Only now do I understand the enormity of what it has done, what it is doing.”
Samanei laughed a tired, sad laugh.
“Yes, that’s right, Uncle, try to escape justice one more time. Use that voice of yours to convince Brando that I am somehow behind all the sick things that you have done. I already know you’re not a real man, anyway. Why you should start acting like one today?”
Santo set the portable terminal on the dais beside him and leaned forward.
“I depended on her for guidance, Brando. She was my Oracle, my spiritual leader. I always put her commands first, above all I thought was good or bad. She’s the person that ordered Tenshi’s death.”
The archon stood.
“I agreed with it, I won’t lie, but don’t imagine that all this was just me, Soburinim. This insane creature was there all the time, pushing me to do what you would consider terrible acts. She’s brilliant, I grant,” he spat, looking over at Meji, who appeared dazed and ready to faint, “but she’s no innocent victim here. She even did what I would never have dared: she killed Archon Rawe. She spent years connected to the interstellar net. Domina knows who she met out there in that faux version of this false reality.”
Brando felt dizzied by the situation. Santo was admitting his misdeeds in front of Meji Pishan, a good sign, as there’d be a witness. Samanei’s role in this, however, he had never considered, and his mind began spinning multiple scenarios at blinding speeds. Santo couldn’t have gotten Yen Bandera to help him. Yen Bandera only cared about intel and money. Santo had none to speak of, at least not enough to be worth the wrath of the Brotherhood.
The fighting he knows is long distance, via pawns. That’s how he killed my sister.
Samanei’s words reverberated in his head.
What if she’s talking about herself?
Samanei stifled a frustrated scream.
“I can’t believe we have to stand here and listen to a man we all know is a sociopath hungry for power blame the woman that he kidnapped when she was all of thirteen, the woman that he ordered locked away, that he mutilated, that he played out his fantasies on.”
Meji looked as if they might collapse at any moment, like a person whose entire existence is rendered meaningless in a second.
Like me after their deaths.
Santo descended a step in Samanei’s direction. Brando quickly moved to the base of the dais, linen robes swirling lightly.
“I don’t know who’s telling the truth here, Santo, but let me make something clear. You stand right there without moving, or I’ll break your neck. We’re going to hear what the Oracle has to say.”
“Thank you, Koweke. I’m sure you know already about how Santo ‘discovered’ that I was the Oracle. Tenshi no do
ubt explained it all to you very clearly,” there was a strange tone in her voice when saying this, “though I don’t know if she got it all right. But there are some things that nobody knows except me and Santo here. Things that he doesn’t want anybody to know.”
“You filthy animal! Soulless creature!” Santo looked petrified.
“Shut up, Santo, or I’ll crush your windpipe so you can’t make a sound.” Brando balled his one fist up and placed a sandaled foot on the first step leading to the dais to show the seriousness of his threat.
“I was about ten at the time. Different from Tenshi, I loved the teyopan school and wanted to learn more and more. I wanted to be enlightened. My uncle here, he knew a lot about the Prophet and Domina, so I was always looking for an excuse to be where he was there. One day I noticed him going into my grandma’s house, so I slipped around back and peeked in the window, hoping that I would hear him talk more about enlightenment.”
A hoarse, choking sound came from Santo. He was visibly shaking, his hands clenching and unclenching wildly. Brando ascended another step toward the dais.
“What I saw I didn’t quite understand. My grandma was sitting up in bed with her robe down around her waist. Uncle Santo’s head was cradled in her arms, and his mouth was to her breast like a baby.”
Santo made as if to spring at her, and Brando crossed the remaining distance between them, passing close to Samanei, who gently ran her fingers along his left arm as he went by.
Standing on the dais a step above Santo to equalize their heights, Brando seized one of the older man’s arms and twisted it behind his back. As Santo gasped in pain, the ex-professor felt a surge of adrenaline, but not the pleasure he’d always imagined. He had the old bastard, the man responsible for his family’s destruction, in his power, yet he felt no better.
Santo had placed a doubt in his mind. He was a villain, no doubt.
But he might also have been a pawn.
