by Дэн Симмонс
“No, Your Holiness,” said Cardinal Mustafa, smiling. “Even the Church has not found a way to reactivate the Web. And it is almost certainly best that we never do.”
My tension was quickly turning to a sort of nausea. This ugly little man in cardinal red was telling Aenea that he knew how she had arrived on T’ien Shan and that she could not escape that way. I glanced at my friend, but she seemed placid and only mildly interested in the conversation. Could there be a second farcaster portal of which the Pax knew nothing? At least this explained why we were still alive: the Pax had sealed Aenea’s mousehole and had a cat, or several cats—in the form of their diplomatic ship in orbit and undoubtedly more warships hidden elsewhere in-system—waiting for her. If I had arrived a few months later, they would have seized or destroyed our ship and still had Aenea where they wanted her.
But why wait? And why this game? “… we would be very interested in seeing your—what is it called?—Temple Hanging in Air? It sounds fascinating,” Archbishop Breque was saying.
Regent Tokra was frowning. “It may be difficult to arrange, Your Excellency,” he said. “The monsoons are approaching, the cableways will be very dangerous, and even the High Way is hazardous during the winter storms.”
“Nonsense!” cried the Dalai Lama, ignoring the scowl the thin-faced Regent had turned in his direction. “We will be happy to help arrange such an expedition,” continued the boy. “You must, by all means, see Hsuan-k’ung Ssu. And all of the Middle Kingdom… even to the T’ai Shan, the Great Peak, where the twenty-seven-thousand-step stairway rises to the Temple to the Jade Emperor and the Princess of the Azure Clouds.”
“Your Holiness,” murmured the Lord Chamberlain, his head bowed but only after exchanging a parental glance with the Regent, “I should remind you that the Great Peak of the Middle Kingdom can be reached by cableway only in the spring months because of the high tide of the poisonous clouds. For the next seven months, T’ai Shan is inaccessible to the rest of the Middle Kingdom and the world.”
The Dalai Lama’s boyish smile disappeared… not, I thought, out of petulance, but from displeasure at being patronized. When he spoke next, his voice had the sharp edge of command to it. I did not know many children, but I had known more than a few military officers, and if my experience was any guide, this boy would become a formidable man and commander.
“Lord Chamberlain,” said the Dalai Lama, “I of course know of the closure of the cableway. Everyone knows of the closure of the cableway. But I also know that every winter season, a few intrepid flyers make the flight from Sung Shan to the Great Peak. How else would we share our formal edicts with our friends among the faithful on T’ai Shan? And some of the parawings can accommodate more than one flyer… passengers even, yes?”
The Lord Chamberlain was bowing so low that I was afraid that his forehead was going to scrape the formal tiles. His voice quavered. “Yes, yes, of course, Your Holiness, of course. I knew that you knew this, My Lord, Your Holiness. I only meant… I only meant to say…”
Regent Tokra said sharply, “I am sure that what the Lord Chamberlain meant to say, Your Holiness, is that although a few flyers make the voyage each year, many more die in the attempt. We would not want to put our honored guests in any danger.”
The Dalai Lama’s smile returned, but it was something older and more cunning—almost mocking—than the boy’s smile of a few minutes earlier. He spoke to Cardinal Mustafa. “You are not afraid of dying, are you, Your Eminence? That is the entire purpose of your visit here, is it not? To show us the wonders of your Christian resurrection?”
“Not the sole purpose, Your Holiness,” murmured the Cardinal. “We come primarily to share the joyous news of Christ with those who wish to hear it and also to discuss possible trade relations with your beautiful world.” The Cardinal returned the boy’s smile. “And although the cross and the Sacrament of Resurrection are direct gifts from God, Your Holiness, it is a sad requirement that some portion of the body or the cruciform must be recovered for that sacrament to be given. I understand that no one returns from your sea of clouds?”
“No one,” agreed the boy with his smile widening.
Cardinal Mustafa made a gesture with his hands. “Then perhaps we will limit our visit to the Temple Hanging in Air and other accessible destinations,” he said.
There was a silence and I looked at Aenea again, thinking that we were about to be dismissed, wondering what the signal would be, thinking that the Lord Chamberlain would lead us out, feeling my arms go to goose bumps at the intensity of the Nemes-thing’s hungry gaze aimed at Aenea, when suddenly Archbishop Jean Daniel Breque broke the silence. “I have been discussing with His Highness, Regent Tokra,” he said to us as if we might settle some argument between them, “how amazingly similar our miracle of resurrection is to the age-old Buddhist belief in reincarnation.”
“Ahhh,” said the boy on the golden throne, his face brightening as if someone had brought up a subject of interest to him, “but not all Buddhists believe in reincarnation. Even before the migration to T’ien Shan and the great changes in philosophy which have evolved here, not all Buddhist sects accepted the concept of rebirth. We know for a fact that the Buddha refused to speculate with his disciples on whether there was such a thing as life after death. “Such questions,” he said, “are not relevant to the practice of the Path and cannot be answered while bound by the restraints of human existence.” Most of Buddhism, you see, gentlemen, can be explored, appreciated, and utilized as a tool toward enlightenment without descending into the supernatural.”
The Archbishop looked nonplussed, but Cardinal Mustafa said quickly, “Yet did not your Buddha say—and I believe that one of your scriptures holds these as his words, Your Holiness, but correct me immediately if I am wrong—‘There is an unborn, an unoriginated, an unmade, an uncompounded; were there not, there would be no escape from the world of the born, the originated, the made, and the compounded.’”
The boy’s smile did not waver. “Indeed, he did, Your Eminence. Very good. But are there not elements—as yet not completely understood—within our physical universe, bound by the laws of our physical universe, which might be described as unborn, unoriginated, unmade, and uncompounded?”
“None that I know of, Your Holiness,” said Cardinal Mustafa, affably enough. “But then I am not a scientist. Only a poor priest.” Despite this diplomatic finesse, the boy on the throne seemed intent on pursuing the subject. “As we have previously discussed, Cardinal Mustafa, our form of Buddhism has evolved since we landed on this mountain world. Now it is very much filled with the spirit of Zen. And one of the great Zen masters of Old Earth, the poet William Blake, once said—‘Eternity is in love with the productions of time.’”
Cardinal Mustafa’s fixed smile showed his lack of understanding.
The Dalai Lama was no longer smiling. The boy’s expression was pleasant but serious. “Do you think perhaps that M. Blake meant that time without ending is worthless time, Cardinal Mustafa? That any being freed from mortality—even God—might envy the children of slow time?”
The Cardinal nodded but showed no agreement. “Your Holiness, I cannot see how God could envy poor mortal humankind. Certainly God is not capable of envy.”
The boy’s nearly invisible eyebrows shot up. “Yet, is not your Christian God, by definition, omnipotent? Certainly he, she, it must be capable of envy.”
“Ah, a paradox meant for children, Your Holiness. I confess I am trained in neither logical apologetics nor metaphysics. But as a prince of Christ’s Church, I know from my catechism and in my soul that God is not capable of envy… especially not envy of his flawed creations.”
“Flawed?” said the boy.
Cardinal Mustafa smiled condescendingly, his tone that of a learned priest speaking to a child. “Humanity is flawed because of its propensity for sin,” he said softly. “Our Lord could not be envious of a being capable of sin.”
The Dalai Lama nodded slowly. “One of our
Zen masters, a man named Ikkyû, once wrote a poem to that effect—‘All the sins committed in the Three Worlds will fade and disappear together with myself.’”
Cardinal Mustafa waited a moment, but when no more poem was forthcoming, he said, “Which three worlds was he speaking of, Your Holiness?”
“This was before spaceflight,” said the boy, shifting slightly on his cushioned throne. “The Three Worlds are the past, present, and future.”
“Very nice,” said the Cardinal from the Holy Office. Behind him, his aide, Father Farrell, was staring at the boy with something like cold distaste.
“But we Christians do not believe that sin—or the effects of sin—or the accountability for sin, for that matter—end with one’s life, Your Holiness.”
“Precisely.” The boy smiled. “It is for this reason that I am curious why you extend life so artificially through your cruciform creature,” he said. “We feel that the slate is washed clean with death. You feel that it brings judgment. Why defer this judgment?”
“We view the cruciform as a sacrament given to us by Our Lord Jesus Christ,” Cardinal Mustafa said softly. “This judgment was first deferred by Our Savior’s sacrifice on the cross, God Himself accepting the punishment for our sins, allowing us the option of everlasting life in heaven if we so choose it. The cruciform is another gift from Our Savior, perhaps allowing us time to set our houses in order before that final judgment.”
“Ahh, yes,” sighed the boy. “But perhaps Ikkyû meant that there are no sinners. That there is no sin. That “our” lives do not belong to us…”
“Precisely, Your Holiness,” interrupted Cardinal Mustafa, as if praising a slow learner. I saw the Regent, the Lord Chamberlain, and others around the throne wince at this interruption. “Our lives do not belong to us, but to Our Lord and Savior… and to serve Him, to our Holy Mother Church.”
“… do not belong to us, but belong to the universe,” continued the boy. “And that our deeds—good and bad—also are property of the universe.”
Cardinal Mustafa frowned. “A pretty phrase, Your Holiness, but perhaps too abstract. Without God, the universe can only be a machine… unthinking, uncaring, unfeeling.”
“Why?” said the boy.
“I beg your pardon, Your Holiness?”
“Why must the universe be unthinking, uncaring, unfeeling without your definition of a God?” the child said softly. He closed his eyes. “The morning dew flees away, And is no more; Who may remain in this world of ours?”
Cardinal Mustafa steepled his fingers and touched his lips as if in prayer or mild frustration. “Very nice, Your Holiness. Ikkyû again?”
The Dalai Lama grinned broadly. “No. Me. I write a little Zen poetry when I can’t sleep.”
The priests chuckled. The Nemes creature stared at Aenea.
Cardinal Mustafa turned toward my friend. “M. Ananda,” he said, “do you have an opinion on these weighty matters?” For a second I did not know whom he was addressing, but then I remembered the Dalai Lama’s introduction of Aenea as Ananda, foremost disciple of the Buddha.
“I know another little verse by Ikkyû which expresses my opinion,” she said. “More frail and illusory than numbers written on water, Our seeking from the Buddha Felicity in the afworld.”
Archbishop Breque cleared his throat and joined in the conversation. “That seems clear enough, young lady. You do not think that God will grant our prayers.”
Aenea shook her head. “I think that he meant two things, Your Eminence. First that the Buddha will not help us. It isn’t in his job definition, so to speak. Secondly, that planning for the afworld is foolish because we are, by nature, timeless, eternal, unborn, undying, and omnipotent.”
The Archbishop’s face and neck reddened above his collar. “Those adjectives can be applied only to God, M. Ananda.” He felt Cardinal Mustafa’s glare on him and remembered his place as a diplomat. “Or so we believe,” he added lamely. “For a young person and an architect, you seem to know your Zen and poetry, M. Ananda.”
Cardinal Mustafa chuckled, obviously trying to lighten the tone. “Are there any other Ikkyû poems you feel might be relevant?”
Aenea nodded. “We come into the world alone, We depart alone, This also is illusion. I will teach you the way Not to come, not to go!”
“That would be a good trick,” said Cardinal Mustafa with false joviality.
The Dalai Lama leaned forward. “Ikkyû taught us that it is possible to live at least part of our lives in a timeless, spaceless world where there is no birth and death, no coming and going,” he said softly. “A place where there is no separation in time, no distance in space, no barrier barring us from the ones we love, no glass wall between experience and our hearts.”
Cardinal Mustafa stared as if speechless.
“My friend… M. Ananda… also taught me this,” said the boy. For a second, the Cardinal’s face was twisted by something like a sneer. He turned toward Aenea.
“I would be pleased if the young lady would teach me… teach us all… this clever conjuror’s trick,” he said sharply.
“I hope to,” said Aenea.
Rhadamanth Nemes took a half step toward my friend. I set my hand in my cape, lightly touching the firing stud of the flashlight laser. The Regent tapped a gong with a cloth-wrapped stick. The Lord Chamberlain hurried forward to escort us out. Aenea bowed to the Dalai Lama and I clumsily did likewise.
The audience was over.
I dance with Aenea in the great, echoing reception hall, to the music of a seventy-two-piece orchestra, with the lords and ladies, priests and plenipotentiaries of T’ien Shan, the Mountains of Heaven, all watching from the edges of the dance floor or wheeling around us in shared motion to the music. I remember dancing with Aenea, dining again before midnight at the long tables constantly restocked with food, and then dancing again. I remember holding her tight as we moved together around the dance floor. I do not remember ever having danced before—at least when I was sober—but I dance this night, holding Aenea close to me as the torchlight from the crackling braziers dims and the Oracle casts skylight shadows across the parquet floors.
It is in the wee hours of the morning and the older guests have retired, all the monks and mayors and elder statesmen—except for the Thunderbolt Sow, who has laughed and sung and clapped along with the orchestra for every raceme quadrille, tapping her slippered feet on the polished floors—and there are only four or five hundred determined celebrants remaining in the great, shadowy space, while the band plays slower and slower pieces as if their musical mainspring is wearing down.
I confess that I would have gone off to bed hours earlier if it were not for Aenea: she wants to dance. So dance we do, moving slowly, her small hand in my large one, my other hand flat on her back—feeling her spine and strong muscles under my palm through the thin silk of the dress—her hair against my cheek, her breasts soft against me, the curve of her skull against my neck and chin. She seems slightly sad, but still energetic, still celebrating. Private audiences had ended many hours ago and word had spread that the Dalai Lama had gone to bed before midnight, but we last celebrants partied on—Lhomo Dondrub, our flyer friend, laughing and pouring champagne and rice beer for everyone, Labsang Samten, the Dalai Lama’s little brother, leaping over the ember-filled braziers at some point, the serious Tromo Trochi of Dhomu suddenly metamorphosing into a magician in one corner, doing tricks with fire and hoops and levitations, and then the Dorje Phamo singing one clear, slow a cappella solo in a voice so sweet that it haunts my dreams to this day, and finally the scores of others joining in the Oracle Song as the orchestra prepares to wrap up the evening’s celebration before the predawn begins to fade the night sky. Suddenly the music ends in mid-bar. The dancers stop. Aenea and I lurch to a stop and look around.
There has been no sign of the Pax guests for hours, but suddenly one of them—Rhadamanth Nemes—emerges from the shadows of the Dalai Lama’s curtained alcove. She has changed her uniform and is no
w dressed all in red. There are two others with her, and for a moment I think they are the priests, but then I see that the two figures dressed in black are near-copies of the Nemes thing: another woman and a man, both in black combat suits, both with limp, black bangs hanging down on pale foreheads, both with eyes of dead amber.
The trio moves through the frozen dancers toward Aenea and me. Instinctively I put myself between my friend and the things, but the Nemes male and its other sibling begin to move around us, flanking us. I pull Aenea close behind me, but she steps to my side.
The frozen dancers make no noise. The orchestra remains silent. Even the moonlight seems stilled to solid shafts in the dusty air. I remove the flashlight laser and hold it at my side. The primary Nemes thing shows small teeth. Cardinal Mustafa steps from the shadows and stands behind her. All four of the Pax creatures hold their gaze on Aenea. For a moment I think that the universe has stopped, that the dancers are literally frozen in time and space, that the music hangs above us like icy stalactites ready to shatter and fall, but then I hear the murmur through the crowd—fearful whispers, a hiss of anxiety.
There is no visible threat—only four Pax guests moving out across the ballroom floor with Aenea as the locus of their closing circle—but the sense of predators closing on their prey is too strong to ignore, as is the scent of fear through the perfume and powder and cologne.
“Why wait?” says Rhadamanth Nemes, looking at Aenea but speaking to someone else—her siblings perhaps, or the Cardinal.
“I think…” says Cardinal Mustafa and freezes.
Everyone freezes. The great horns near the entrance arch have blown with the bass rumble of continental crusts shifting. No one is there in the alcoves to blow them. The bone and brass trumpets bracket the endless one-note rumbling of the horns. The great gong vibrates on the bone conduction level.
There is a rustle and stifled outcry across the dance floor, in the direction of the escalators, the anteroom, and the curtained entrance arch. The thinning crowds there are parting wider, moving aside like furrowed soil ahead of a steel plow.
