Salutation to the Buddha.
In the language of the gods and in that of the Lus,
In the language of the demons and in that of the men,
In all the languages which exist,
I proclaim the Doctrine.
Jigme Dzasa stood at the foot of the long granite stair leading to the great library, the spectacle filling his senses, the litany dancing in his soul. He turned to his guest. “Are you ready, Ambassador?”
The face of !urq was placid. “Lus?” she asked.
“Mythical beings,” said Jigme. “Serpentine divinities who live in bodies of water.”
“Ah,” !urq said. “I’m glad we got that cleared up.”
Jigme looked at the alien, decided to say nothing.
“Let us begin,” said the Ambassador. Jigme hitched up his zen and began the long climb to the Palace, his bare feet slapping at the stones. A line of Gelugspa monks followed in respectful silence. Ambassador Colonel !urq climbed beside Jigme at a slow trot, her four boot heels rapping. Behind her was a line of Sangs, their centauroid bodies cased neatly in blue-and-gray uniforms, decorations flashing in the bright sun. Next to each was a feathery Masker servant carrying a ceremonial parasol.
Jigme was out of breath by the time he mounted the long stairway, and his head whirled as he entered the tsokhang, the giant assembly hall. Several thousand members of religious orders sat rigid at their stations, long lines of men and women: Dominicans and Sufis in white, Red Hats and Yellow Hats in their saffron zens, Jesuits in black, Gyudpas in complicated aprons made of carved, interwoven human bones.… Each sat in the lotus posture in front of a solid gold data terminal decorated with religious symbols, some meditating, some chanting sutras, others accessing the Library.
Jigme, !urq, and their parties passed through the vast hall that hummed with the distant, echoing sutras of those trying to achieve unity with the Diamond Mountain. At the far side of the room were huge double doors of solid jade, carved with figures illustrating the life of the first twelve incarnations of the Gyalpo Rinpoche, the Treasured King. The doors opened on silent hinges at the touch of equerries’ fingertips. Jigme looked at the equerries as he passed—lovely young novices, he thought, beautiful boys really. The shaven nape of that dark one showed an extraordinary curve.
Beyond was the audience chamber. The Masker servants remained outside, holding their parasols at rigid attention, while their masters trotted into the audience chamber alongside the line of monks.
Holographic murals filled the walls, illustrating the life of the Compassionate One. The ceiling was of transparent polymer, the floor of clear crystal that went down to the solid core of the planet. The crystal refracted sunlight in interesting ways, and as he walked across the room Jigme seemed to walk on rainbows.
At the far end of the room, flanked by officials, was the platform that served as a throne. Overhead was an arching canopy of massive gold, the words AUM MANI PADME HUM worked into the design in turquoise. The platform was covered in a large carpet decorated with figures of the lotus, the Wheel, the swastika, the two fish, the eternal knot, and other holy symbols. Upon the carpet sat the Gyalpo Rinpoche himself, a small man with a sunken chest and bony shoulders, the Forty-First Incarnation of the Bodhisattva Bob Miller, the Great Librarian, himself an emanation of Avalokitesvara.
The Incarnation was dressed simply in a yellow zen, being the only person in the holy precincts permitted to wear the color. Around his waist was a rosary composed of 108 strung bone disks cut from the forty skulls of his previous incarnations. His body was motionless but his arms rose and fell as the fingers moved in a series of symbolic hand gestures, one mudra after another, their pattern set by the flow of data through the Diamond Mountain.
Jigme approached and dropped to his knees before the platform. He pressed the palms of his hands together, brought the hands to his forehead, mouth, and heart, then touched his forehead to the floor. Behind him he heard thuds as some of his delegation slammed their heads against the crystal surface in a display of piety—indeed, there were depressions in the floor worn by the countless pilgrims who had done this—but Jigme, knowing he would need his wits, only touched his forehead lightly and held the posture until he heard the Incarnation speak.
“Jigme Dzasa. I am pleased to see you again. Please get to your feet and introduce me to your friends.”
The old man’s voice was light and dry, full of good humor. In the seventy-third year of his incarnation, the Treasured King enjoyed good health.
Jigme straightened. Rainbows rose from the floor and danced before his eyes. He climbed slowly to his feet as his knees made popping sounds—twenty years younger than the Incarnation, he was a good deal suffer of limb—and moved toward the platform in an attitude of reverence. He reached to the rosary at his waist and took from it a white silk scarf embroidered with a religious text. He unfolded the khata and, sticking out his tongue in respect, handed it to the Incarnation with a bow.
The Gyalpo Rinpoche took the khata and draped it around his own neck with a smile. He reached out a hand, and Jigme dropped his head for the blessing. He felt dry fingertips touch his shaven scalp, and then a sense of harmony seemed to hum through his being. Everything, he knew, was correct. The interview would go well.
Jigme straightened and the Incarnation handed him a khata in exchange, one with the mystic three knots tied by the Incarnation himself. Jigme bowed again, stuck out his tongue, and moved to the side of the platform with the other officials. Beside him was Dr. Kay O’Neill, the Minister of Science. Jigme could feel O’Neill’s body vibrating like a taut cord, but the minister’s overwrought state could not dispel Jigme’s feeling of bliss.
“Omniscient,” Jigme said, “I would like to present Colonel !urq, Ambassador of the Sang.”
!urq was holding her upper arms in a Sang attitude of respect. Neither she nor her followers had prostrated themselves, but had stood politely by while their human escort had done so. !urq’s boots rang against the floor as she trotted to the dais, her lower arms offering a khata. She had no tongue to stick out—her upper and lower palates were flexible, permitting a wide variety of sounds, but they weren’t as flexible as all that. Still she thrust out her lower lip in a polite approximation.
“I am honored to be presented at last, Omniscient,” !urq said.
Dr. O’Neill gave a snort of anger.
The Treasured King draped a knotted khata around the Ambassador’s neck. “We of the Diamond Mountain are pleased to welcome you. I hope you will find our hospitality to your liking.”
The old man reached forward for the blessing. !urq’s instructions did not permit her to bow her head before an alien presence, so the Incarnation simply reached forward and placed his hand over her face for a moment. They remained frozen in that attitude, and then !urq backed carefully to one side of the platform, standing near Jigme. She and Jigme then presented their respective parties to the Incarnation. By the end of the audience the head of the Gyalpo Rinpoche looked like a tiny red jewel in a flowery lotus of white silk khatas.
“I thank you all for coming all these light-years to see me,” said the Incarnation, and Jigme led the visitors from the audience chamber, chanting the sutra Aum vajra guru Padma siddhi hum, Aum the diamond powerful guru Padma, as he walked.
!urq came to a halt as soon as her party had filed from the room. Her lower arms formed an expression of bewilderment.
“Is that all?”
Jigme looked at the alien. “That is the conclusion of the audience, yes. We may tour the holy places in the Library, if you wish.”
“We had no opportunity to discuss the matter of Gyangtse.”
“You may apply to the Ministry for another interview.”
“It took me twelve years to obtain this one.” Her upper arms took a stance that Jigme recognized as martial. “The patience of my government is not unlimited,” she said.
Jigme bowed. “I shall communicate this to the Ministry, Ambassador.”
&
nbsp; “Delay in the Gyangtse matter will only result in more hardship for the inhabitants when they are removed.”
“It is out of my hands, Ambassador.”
!urq held her stance for a long moment in order to emphasize her protest, then relaxed her arms. Her upper set of hands caressed the white silk khata. “Odd to think,” she said, amused, “that I journeyed twelve years just to stick out my lip at a human and have him touch my face in return.”
“Many humans would give their lives for such a blessing,” said Jigme.
“Sticking out the lip is quite rude where I come from, you know.”
“I believe you have told me this.”
“The Omniscient’s hands were very warm.” !urq raised fingers to her forehead, touched the ebon flesh. “I believe I can still feel the heat on my skin.”
Jigme was impressed. “The Treasured King has given you a special blessing. He can channel the energies of the Diamond Mountain through his body. That was the heat you felt.”
!urq’s antennae rose skeptically, but she refrained from comment.
“Would you like to see the holy places?” Jigme said. “This, for instance, is a room devoted to Maitreya, the Buddha That Will Come. Before you is his statue. Data can be accessed by manipulation of the images on his headdress.”
Jigme’s speech was interrupted by the entrance of a Masker servant from the audience room. A white khata was draped about the avian’s neck. !urq’s trunk swiveled atop her centaur body; her arms assumed a commanding stance. The clicks and pops of her own language rattled from her mouth like falling stones.
“Did I send for you, creature?”
The Masker performed an obsequious gesture with its parasol. “I beg the Colonel’s pardon. The old human sent for us. He is touching us and giving us scarves.” The Masker fluttered helplessly. “We did not wish to offend our hosts, and there were no Sang to query for instruction.”
“How odd,” said !urq. “Why should the old human want to bless our slaves?” She eyed the Masker and thought for a moment. “I will not kill you today,” she decided. She turned to Jigme and switched to Tibetan. “Please continue, Rinpoche.”
“As you wish, Colonel.” He returned to his speech. “The Library Palace is the site of no less than twenty-one tombs of various bodhisattvas, including many incarnations of the Gyalpo Rinpoche. The Palace also contains over eight thousand data terminals and sixty shrines.”
As he rattled through the prepared speech, Jigme wondered about the scene he had just witnessed. He suspected that “I will not kill you today” was less alarming than it sounded, was instead an idiomatic way of saying “Go about your business.”
Then again, knowing the Sang, maybe not.
* * *
The Cabinet had gathered in one of the many other reception rooms of the Library Palace. This one was small, the walls and ceiling hidden behind tapestry covered with applique, the room’s sole ornament a black stone statue of a dancing demon that served tea on command.
The Gyalpo Rinpoche, to emphasize his once-humble origins, was seated on the floor. White stubble prickled from his scalp.
Jigme sat cross-legged on a pillow. Across from him was Dr. O’Neill. A lay official, her status was marked by the long turquoise earring that hung from her left ear to her collarbone, that and the long hair piled high on her head. The rosary she held was made of 108 antique microprocessors pierced and strung on a length of fiberoptic cable. Beside her sat the cheerful Miss Taisuke, the Minister of State. Although only fifteen years old, she was Jigme’s immediate superior, her authority derived from being the certified reincarnation of a famous hermit nun of the Yellow Hat Gelugspa order. Beside her, the Minister of Magic, a tantric sorcerer of the Gyud School named Daddy Carbajal, toyed with a trumpet made from a human thighbone. Behind him in a semireclined position was the elderly, frail, toothless State Oracle—his was a high-ranking position, but it was a largely symbolic one as long as the Treasured King was in his majority. Other ministers, lay or clerical, sipped tea or gossiped as they waited for the Incarnation to begin the meeting.
The Treasured King scratched one bony shoulder, grinned, then assumed in an eyeblink a posture of deep meditation, placing hands in his lap with his skull-rosary wrapped around them. “Aum,” he intoned. The others straightened and joined in the holy syllable, the Pranava, the creative sound whose vibrations built the universe. Then the Horse of the Air rose from the throat of the Gyalpo Rinpoche, the syllables Aum mane padme hum, and the others reached for their rosaries.
As he recited the rosary, Jigme tried to meditate on each syllable as it went by, comprehend the full meaning of each, the color, the importance, the significance. Aum, which was white and connected with the gods. Ma, which was blue and connected with the titans. Ne, which was yellow and connected with men. Pad, which was green and connected with animals. Me, which was red and connected with giants and demigods. Hum, which was black and connected with dwellers in purgatory. Each syllable a separate realm, each belonging to a separate species, together forming the visible and invisible universe.
“Hri!” called everyone in unison, signifying the end of the 108th repetition. The Incarnation smiled and asked the black statue for some tea. The stone demon scuttled across the thick carpet and poured tea into his golden bowl. The demon looked up into the Incarnation’s face.
“Free me!” said the statue.
The Gyalpo Rinpoche looked at the statue. “Tell me truthfully. Have you achieved Enlightenment?”
The demon said nothing.
The Treasured King smiled again. “Then you had better give Dr. O’Neill some tea.”
O’Neill accepted her tea, sipped, and dismissed the demon. It scuttled back to its pedestal.
“We should consider the matter of Ambassador !urq,” said the Incarnation.
O’Neill put down her teacup. “I am opposed to her presence here. The Sang are an unenlightened and violent race. They conceive of life as a struggle against nature rather than search for Enlightenment. They have already conquered an entire species, and would subdue us if they could.”
“That is why I have consented to the building of warships,” said the Incarnation.
“From their apartments in the Nyingmapa monastery, the Sang now have access to the Library,” said O’Neill. “All our strategic information is present there. They will use the knowledge against us.”
“Truth can do no harm,” said Miss Taisuke.
“All truth is not vouchsafed to the unenlightened,” said O’Neill. “To those unprepared by correct study and thought, truth can be a danger.” She gestured with an arm, encompassing the world outside the Palace. “Who should know better than we, who live on Vajra? Haven’t half the charlatans in all existence set up outside our walls to preach half-truths to the credulous, endangering their own Enlightenment and those of everyone who hears them?”
Jigme listened to O’Neill in silence. O’Neill and Daddy Carbajal were the leaders of the reactionary party, defenders of orthodoxy and the security of the realm. They had argued this point before.
“Knowledge will make the Sang cautious,” said Jigme. “They will now know of our armament. They will now understand the scope of the human expansion, far greater than their own. We may hope this will deter them from attack.”
“The Sang may be encouraged to build more weapons of their own,” said Daddy Carbajal. “They are already highly militarized, as a way of keeping down their subject species. They may militarize further.”
“Be assured they are doing so,” said O’Neill. “Our own embassy is kept in close confinement on a small planetoid. They have no way of learning the scope of the Sang threat or sending this information to the Library. We, on the other hand, have escorted the Sang ambassador throughout human space and have shown her anything in which she expressed an interest.”
“Deterrence,” said Jigme. “We wished them to know how extensive our sphere is, that the conquest would be costly and call for more resources than th
ey possess.”
“We must do more than deter. The Sang threat should be eliminated, as were the threats of heterodox humanity during the Third and Fifth Incarnations.”
“You speak jihad,” said Miss Taisuke.
There was brief silence. No one, not even O’Neill, was comfortable with Taisuke’s plainness.
“All human worlds are under the peace of the Library,” said O’Neill. “This was accomplished partly by force, partly by conversion. The Sang will not permit conversion.”
The Gyalpo Rinpoche cleared his throat. The others fell silent at once. The Incarnation had been listening in silence, his face showing concentration but no emotion. He always preferred to hear the opinions of others before expressing his own. “The Third and Fifth Incarnations,” he said, “did nothing to encourage the jihads proclaimed in their name. The Incarnations did not wish to accept temporal power.”
“They did not speak against the holy warriors,” said Daddy Carbajal.
The Incarnation’s elderly face was uncommonly stern. His hands formed the teaching mudra. “Does not Shakyamuni speak in the Anguttara Nikaya of the three ways of keeping the body pure?” he asked. “One must not commit adultery, one must not steal, one must not kill any living creature. How could warriors kill for orthodoxy and yet remain orthodox?”
There was a long moment of uncomfortable silence. Only Daddy Carbajal, whose tantric Short Path teaching included numerous ways of dispatching his enemies, did not seem nonplussed.
“The Sang are here to study us,” said the Gyalpo Rinpoche. “We also study them.”
“I view their pollution as a danger.” Dr. O’Neill’s face was stubborn.
Miss Taisuke gave a brilliant smile. “Does not the Mahaparinirvana-sutra tell us that if we are forced to live in a difficult situation and among people of impure minds, if we cherish faith in Buddha we can ever lead them toward better actions?”
The Year's Best SF 09 # 1991 Page 20
