Jigme did not move. “I cannot help you, Minister.”
“Poor Jigme.” She drew her hand back. “I will offer prayers for you.”
“Prayers are always accepted, Miss Taisuke.”
“But not passes. Very well.” She rose to her feet, and Jigme rose with her. “I must be off to the Kagyupas’ party. Will you be there?”
“I have scheduled this hour for meditation. Perhaps later.”
“Later, then.” She kissed his cheek and squeezed his hand, then slipped out of the tent. Jigme sat in the lotus posture and called for Rabjoms to take away the tea things. As he watched the boy’s graceful movements, he gave an inward sigh. His weakness had been noticed, and, even worse, remarked on.
His next student would have to be ugly. The ugliest one he could find.
He sighed again.
A shriek rang out. Jigme looked up, heart hammering, and saw a demon at the back of the tent. Its flesh was bright red, and its eyes seemed to bulge out of its head. Rabjoms yelled and flung the tea service at it; a glass bounced off its head and shattered.
The demon charged forward, Rabjoms falling under its clawed feet. The overwhelming smell of decay filled the tent. The demon burst through the tent flap into the outdoors. Jigme heard more shrieks and cries of alarm from outside. The demon roared like a bull, then laughed like a madman. Jigme crawled forward to gather up Rabjoms, holding the terrified boy in his arms, chanting the Horse of the Air to calm himself until he heard the teakettle hissing of a thousand snakes followed by a rush of wind, the sign that the entity had dispersed. Jigme soothed his page and tried to think what the meaning of this sudden burst of psychic energy might be.
A few moments later, Jigme received a call on his radiophone. The Gyalpo Rinpoche, a few moments after returning to the Library Palace in his hovertent, had fallen stone dead.
* * *
“Cerebral hemorrhage,” said Dr. O’Neill. The Minister of Science had performed the autopsy herself—her long hair was undone and tied behind, to fit under a surgical cap, and she still wore her scrubs. She was without the long turquoise earring that marked her rank, and she kept waving a hand near her ear, as if she somehow missed it. “The Incarnation was an old man,” she said. “A slight erosion in an artery, and he was gone. It took only seconds.”
The Cabinet accepted the news in stunned silence. For all their lives, there had been only the one Treasured King. Now the anchor of all their lives had been removed.
“The reincarnation was remarkably swift,” Dr. O’Neill said. “I was able to watch most of it on the monitors in real time—the energies remained remarkably focused, not dissipated in a shower of sparks as with most individuals. I must admit I was impressed. The demon that appeared at the Picnic Festival was only one of the many side effects caused by such a massive turbulence within the crystal architecture of the Diamond Mountain.”
Miss Taisuke looked up. “Have you identified the child?”
“Of course.” Dr. O’Neill allowed herself a thin-lipped smile. “A second-trimester baby, to be born to a family of tax collectors in Dulan Province, near the White Ocean. The fetus is not developed to the point where a full incarnation is possible, and the energies remain clinging to the mother until they can move to the child. She must be feeling … elevated. I would like to interview her about her sensations before she is informed that she is carrying the new Bodhisattva.” Dr. O’Neill waved a hand in the vicinity of her ear again.
“We must appoint a regent,” said Daddy Carbajal.
“Yes,” said Dr. O’Neill. “The more so now, with the human sphere being threatened by the unenlightened.”
Jigme looked from one to the other. The shock of the Gyalpo Rinpoche’s death had unnerved him to the point of forgetting political matters. Clearly this had not been the case with O’Neill and the Minister of Magic.
He could not let the reactionary party dominate this meeting.
“I believe,” he said, “we should appoint Miss Taisuke as Regent.”
His words surprised even himself.
* * *
The struggle was prolonged. Dr. O’Neill and Daddy Carbajal fought an obstinate rearguard action, but finally Miss Taisuke was confirmed. Jigme had a feeling that several of the ministers only consented to Miss Taisuke because they thought she was young enough that they might manipulate her. They didn’t know her well, Jigme thought, and that was fortunate.
“We must formulate a policy concerning Gyangtse and the Sang,” Dr. O’Neill said. Her face assumed its usual thin-lipped stubbornness.
“The Omniscient’s policy was always to delay,” Miss Taisuke said. “This sad matter will furnish a further excuse for postponing any final decision.”
“We must put the armed forces on alert. The Sang may consider this a moment in which to strike.”
The Regent nodded. “Let this be done.”
“There is the matter of the new Incarnation,” Dr. O’Neill said. “Should the delivery be advanced? How should the parents be informed?”
“We shall consult the State Oracle,” said Miss Taisuke.
The Oracle, his toothless mouth gaping, was a picture of terror. No one had asked him anything in years.
* * *
Eerie music echoed through the Oracular Hall of the Library, off the walls and ceiling covered with grotesque carvings—gods, demons, and skulls that grinned at the intent humans below. Chanting monks sat in rows, accompanied by magicians playing drums and trumpets all made from human bone. Jigme’s stinging eyes watered from the gusts of strong incense.
In the middle of it all sat the State Oracle, his wrinkled face expressionless. Before him, sitting on a platform, was Miss Taisuke, dressed in the formal clothing of the Regency.
“In old Tibetan times, the Oracle used to be consulted frequently,” Jigme told Ambassador !urq. “But since the Gyalpo Rinpoche has been incarnated on Vajra, the Omniscient’s close association with the universe analogue of the Library has made most divination unnecessary. The State Oracle is usually called upon only during periods between Incarnations.”
“I am having trouble phrasing my reports to my superiors, Rinpoche,” said !urq. “Your government is at present run by a fifteen-year-old girl with the advice of an elderly fortune-teller. I expect to have a certain amount of difficulty getting my superiors to take this seriously.”
“The Oracle is a serious diviner,” Jigme said. “There are a series of competetive exams to discover his degree of empathy with the Library. Our Oracle was right at the top of his class.”
“My government will be relieved to know it.”
The singing and chanting had been going on for hours. !urq had long been showing signs of impatience. Suddenly the Oracle gave a start. His eyes and mouth dropped open. His face had lost all character.
Then something else was there, an alien presence. The Oracle jumped up from his seated position, began to whirl wildly with his arms outstretched. Several of his assistants ran forward carrying his headdress while others seized him, holding his rigid body steady. The headdress was enormous, all hand-wrought gold featuring skulls and gods and topped with a vast array of plumes. It weighed over ninety pounds.
“The Oracle, by use of intent meditation, has driven the spirit from his own body,” Jigme reported. “He is now possessed by the Library, which assumes the form of the god Yamantaka, the Conqueror of Death.”
“Interesting,” !urq said noncommittally.
“An old man could not support that headdress without some form of psychic help,” Jigme said. “Surely you must agree?” He was beginning to be annoyed by the Ambassador’s perpetual skepticism.
The Oracle’s assistants had managed to strap the headdress on the Oracle’s bald head. They stepped back, and the Oracle continued his dance, the weighty headdress supported by his rigid neck. The Oracle dashed from one end of the room to the other, still whirling, sweat spraying off his brow, then ran to the feet of Miss Taisuke and fell to his knees.
When he spoke it was in a metallic, unnatural voice. “The Incarnation should be installed by New Year!” he shouted, and then toppled. When the assistant monks had unstrapped the heavy headdress and the old man rose, back in his body once more and rubbing his neck, the Oracle looked at Miss Taisuke and blinked painfully. “I resign,” he said.
“Accepted,” said the Regent. “With great regret.”
“This is a young man’s job. I could have broken my damn neck.”
Ambassador lurq’s antennae pricked forward. “This,” she said, “is an unusually truthful oracle.”
“Top of his class,” said Jigme. “What did I tell you?”
* * *
The new Oracle was a young man, a strict orthodox Yellow Hat whose predictive abilities had been proved outstanding by every objective test. The calendar of festivals rolled by: the time of pilgrimage, the week of operas and plays, the kite-flying festival, the end of Ramadan, Buddha’s descent from Tishita Heaven, Christmas, the celebration of Kali the Benevolent, the anniversary of the death of Tsongkhapa.… The New Year was calculated to fall sixty days after Christmas, and for weeks beforehand the artisans of Vajra worked on their floats. The floats—huge sculptures of fabulous buildings, religious icons, famous scenes from the opera featuring giant animated figures, tens of thousands of man-hours of work—would be taken through the streets of the Diamond City during the New Year’s procession, then up onto Burning Hill in plain sight of the Library Palace where the new Incarnation could view them from the balcony.
And week after week, the new Incarnation grew, as fast as the technology safely permitted. Carefully removed from his mother’s womb by Dr. O’Neill, the Incarnation was placed in a giant autowomb and fed a diet of nutrients and hormones calculated to bring him to adulthood. Microscopic wires were inserted carefully into his developing brain to feed the memory centers with scripture, philosophy, science, art, and the art of governing. As the new Gyalpo Rinpoche grew the body was exercised by electrode so that he would emerge with physical maturity.
The new Incarnation had early on assumed the lotus position during his rest periods, and Jigme often came to the Science Ministry to watch, through the womb’s transparent cover, the eerie figure meditating in the bubbling nutrient solution. All growth of hair had been suppressed by Dr. O’Neill and the figure seemed smooth perfection. The Omniscient-to-be was leaving early adolescence behind, growing slim and cat-muscled.
The new Incarnation would need whatever strength it possessed. The political situation was worsening. The border remained unresolved—the Sang wanted not simply a new planet in exchange for Gyangtse, but also room to expand into a new militarized sphere on the other side of human space. Sang military movements, detected from the human side of the border, seemed to be rehearsals for an invasion, and were countered by increased human defense allotments. As a deterrent, the human response was made obvious to the Sang: Ambassador !urq complained continually about human aggression. Dr. O’Neill and Daddy Carbajal grew combative in Cabinet meetings. Opposition to them was scattered and unfocused. If the reactionary party wanted war, the Sang were doing little but playing into their hands.
Fortunately the Incarnation would be decanted within a week, to take possession of the rambling, embittered councils and give them political direction. Jigme closed his eyes and offered a long prayer that the Incarnation might soon make his presence felt among his ministers.
He opened his eyes. The smooth, adolescent Incarnation hovered before him, suspended in golden nutrient. Fine bubbles rose in the liquid, stroking the Incarnation’s skin. The figure had a fascinating, eerie beauty, and Jigme felt he could stare at it forever.
Jigme saw, to his surprise, that the floating Incarnation had an erection.
And then the Incarnation opened his eyes.
The eyes were green. Jigme felt coldness flood his spine—the look was knowing, a look of recognition. A slight smile curled the Incarnation’s lips. Jigme stared. The smile seemed cruel.
Dry-mouthed, Jigme bent forward, slammed his forehead to the floor in obeisance. Pain crackled through his head. He stayed that way for a long time, offering prayer after frantic prayer.
When he finally rose, the Incarnation’s eyes were closed, and the body sat calmly amid golden, rising bubbles.
* * *
The late Incarnation’s rosary seemed warm as it lay against Jigme’s neck. Perhaps it was anticipating being reunited with its former owner.
“The Incarnation is being dressed,” Dr. O’Neill said. She stepped through the doors into the vast cabinet room. Two novice monks, doorkeepers, bowed as she swept past, their tongues stuck out in respect, then swung the doors shut behind her. O’Neill was garbed formally in a dress so heavy with brocade that it crackled as she moved. Yellow lamplight flickered from the braid as she moved through the darkened counsel chamber. Her piled hair was hidden under an embroidered cap; silver gleamed from the elaborate settings of her long turquoise earring. “He will meet with the Cabinet in a few moments and perform the recognition ceremony.”
The Incarnation had been decanted that afternoon. He had walked as soon as he was permitted. The advanced growth techniques used by Dr. O’Neill appeared to have met with total success. Her eyes glowed with triumph; her cheeks were flushed.
She took her seat among the Cabinet, moving stiffly in the heavy brocade.
The Cabinet sat surrounding a small table on which some of the late Incarnation’s possessions were surrounded by a number of similar objects or imitations. His rosary was around Jigme’s neck. During the recognition ceremony, the new Incarnation was supposed to single out his possessions in order to display his continuance from the former personality. The ceremony was largely a formality, a holdover from the earlier, Tibetan tradition—it was already perfectly clear, from Library data, just who the Incarnation was.
There was a shout from the corridor outside, then a loud voice raised in song. The members of the Cabinet stiffened in annoyance. Someone was creating a disturbance. The Regent beckoned to a communications device hidden in an image of Kali, intending to summon guards and have the disorderly one ejected.
The doors swung open, each held by a bowing novice with outthrust tongues. The Incarnation appeared between them. He was young, just entering late adolescence. He was dressed in the tall crested formal hat and yellow robes stiff with brocade. Green eyes gleamed in the dim light as he looked at the assembled officials.
The Cabinet moved as one, offering obeisance first with praying hands lifted to the forehead, mouth, and heart, then prostrated themselves with their heads to the ground. As he fell forward, Jigme heard a voice singing.
Let us drink and sport today,
Ours is not tomorrow.
Love with Youth flies swift away,
Age is nought but Sorrow.
Dance and sing,
Time’s on the wing,
Life never knows the return of Spring.
In slow astonishment, Jigme realized that it was the Incarnation who was singing. Gradually Jigme rose from his bow.
Jigme saw that the Incarnation had a bottle in his hand. Was he drunk? he wondered. And where in the Library had he gotten the beer, or whatever it was? Had he materialized it?
“This way, boy,” said the Incarnation. He had a hand on the shoulder of one of the doorkeepers. He drew the boy into the room, then took a long drink from his bottle. He eyed the Cabinet slowly, turning his head from one to the other.
“Omniscient—” said Miss Taisuke.
“Not yet,” said the Incarnation. “I’ve been in a glass sphere for almost ten months. It’s time I had some fun.” He pushed the doorkeeper onto hands and knees, then knelt behind the boy. He pushed up the boy’s zen, clutched at his buttocks. The page cast little frantic glances around the room. The new State Oracle seemed apoplectic.
“I see you’ve got some of my things,” said the Incarnation.
Jigme felt something twitch around his neck. The former Incarnation’s skull
-rosary was beginning to move. Jigme’s heart crashed in his chest.
The Cabinet watched in stunned silence as the Incarnation began to sodomize the doorkeeper. The boy’s face showed nothing but panic and terror.
This is a lesson, Jigme thought insistently. This is a living Bodhisattva doing this, and somehow this is one of his sermons. We will learn from this.
The rosary twitched, rose slowly from around Jigme’s neck, and flew through the air to drop around the Incarnation’s head.
A plain ivory walking stick rose from the table and spun through the air. The Incarnation materialized a third arm to catch the cane in midair. A decorated porcelain bowl followed, a drum, and a small golden figurine of a laughing Buddha ripped itself free from the pocket of the new State Oracle. Each was caught by a new arm. Each item had belonged to the former Incarnation; each was the correct choice.
The Incarnation howled like a beast at the moment of climax. Then he stood, adjusting his garments. He bent to pick up the ivory cane. He smashed the porcelain bowl with it, then broke the cane over the head of the Buddha. He rammed the Buddha through the drum, then threw both against the wall. All six hands rose to the rosary around his neck; he ripped at it and the cord broke, white bone disks flying through the room. His extra arms vanished.
“Short Path,” he said, turned and stalked out.
Across the room, in the long silence that followed, Jigme could see Dr. O’Neill. Her pale face seemed to float in the darkness, distinct amid the confusion and madness, her expression frozen in a racking, electric moment of private agony. The minister’s moment of triumph had turned to ashes.
Perhaps everything had.
Jigme rose to comfort the doorkeeper.
* * *
“There has never been an Incarnation who followed the Short Path,” said Miss Taisuke.
“Daddy Carbajal should be delighted,” Jigme said. “He’s a doubtob himself.”
“I don’t think he’s happy,” said the Regent. “I watched him. He is a tantric sorcerer, yes, one of the best. But the Incarnation’s performance frightened him.”
The Year's Best SF 09 # 1991 Page 22
