“Impossible!” A storm of anger filled Jigme. His hands formed the mudra of astonishment.
“I suspect you’re right, Jigme.” Solemnly. “They base their models of our society on their own past despotisms—they don’t realize that the Treasured King is not a despot or an absolute ruler, but rather someone of great wisdom whom others follow through their own free will. But we should encourage !urq in this estimation, yes? Anything to give impetus to the Sang’s more rational impulses.”
“But it’s based on a slander! And a slander concerning the Incarnation can never be countenanced!”
Taisuke raised an admonishing finger. “The Sang draw their own conclusions. And should we protest this one, we might give away our knowledge of their communications.”
Anger and frustration bubbled in Jigme’s mind. “What barbarians!” he said. “I have tried to show them truth, but…”
Taisuke’s voice was calm. “You have shown them the path of truth. Their choosing not to follow it is their own karma.”
Jigme promised himself he would do better. He would compel !urq to recognize the Incarnation’s teaching mission.
Teaching, he thought. He remembered the stunned look on the doorkeeper’s face that first Cabinet meeting, the Incarnation’s cry at the moment of climax, his own desperate attempt to see the thing as a lesson. And then he thought about what !urq would have said, had she been there.
He went to the meditation box that night, determined to exorcise the demon that gnawed at his vitals. Lust, he recited, provides the soil in which other passions flourish. Lust is like a demon that eats up all the good deeds of the world. Lust is a viper hiding in a flower garden; it poisons those who come in search of beauty.
It was all futile. Because all he could think of was the Gyalpo Rinpoche, the lovely body moving rhythmically in the darkness of the Cabinet room.
* * *
The moan of ragdongs echoed over the gardens and was followed by drunken applause and shouts. It was the beginning of the festival of plays and operas. The Cabinet and other high officials celebrated the festival at the Jewel Pavilion, the Incarnation’s summer palace, where there was an outdoor theater specially built among the sweet-smelling meditative gardens. The palace, a lacy white fantasy ornamented with statues of gods and masts carrying prayer flags, sat bathed in spotlights atop its hill.
In addition to the members of the court were the personal followers of the Incarnation, people he had been gathering during the seven months of his reign. Novice monks and nuns, doubtobs and naljorpas, crazed hermits, looney charlatans and mediums, runaways, workers from the spaceport … all drunk, all pledged to follow the Short Path wherever it led.
“Disgusting,” said Dr. O’Neill. “Loathsome.” Furiously she brushed at a spot on her brocaded robe where someone had spilled beer.
Jigme said nothing. Cymbals clashed from the stage, where the orchestra was practicing. Three novice monks went by, staggering under the weight of a flogging machine. The festival was going to begin with the punishment of a number of criminals, and any who could walk afterward would then be able to join the revelers. The first opera would be sung on a stage spattered with blood.
Dr. O’Neill stepped closer to Jigme. “The Incarnation has asked me to furnish him a report on nerve induction. He wishes to devise a machine to induce pain without damage to the body.”
Heavy sorrow filled Jigme that he could no longer be surprised by such news. “For what purpose?” he asked.
“To punish criminals, of course. Without crippling them. Then his Omniscience will be able to order up as savage punishments as he likes without being embarrassed by hordes of cripples shuffling around the capital.”
Jigme tried to summon indignation. “You should not impart unworthy motives to the Gyalpo Rinpoche.”
Dr. O’Neill only gave him a cynical look. Behind her, trampling through a hedge, came a young monk, laughing, being pursued by a pair of women with whips. O’Neill looked at them as they dashed off into the darkness. “At least it will give them less of an excuse to indulge in such behavior. It won’t be as much fun to watch if there isn’t any blood.”
“That would be a blessing.”
“The Forty-Second Incarnation is potentially the finest in history,” O’Neill said. Her eyes narrowed in fury. She raised a clenched fist, the knuckles white in the darkness. “The most intelligent Incarnation, the most able, the finest rapport with the Library in centuries … and look at what he is doing with his gifts!”
“I thank you for the compliments, Doctor,” said the Incarnation. O’Neill and Jigme jumped. The Incarnation, treading lightly on the summer grass, had walked up behind them. He was dressed only in his white reskyang and the garlands of flowers given him by his followers. Kunlegs, as always, loomed behind him, twitching furiously.
Jigme bowed profoundly, sticking out his tongue.
“The punishment machine,” said the Incarnation. “Do the plans move forward?”
Dr. O’Neill’s dismay was audible in her reply. “Yes, Omniscient.”
“I wish the work to be completed for the New Year. I want particular care paid to the monitors that will alert the operators if the felon’s life is in danger. We should not want to violate Shakyamuni’s commandment against slaughter.”
“The work shall be done, Omniscient.”
“Thank you, Dr. O’Neill.” He reached out a hand to give her a blessing. “I think of you as my mother, Dr. O’Neill. The lady who tenderly watched over me in the womb. I hope this thought pleases you.”
“If it pleases your Omniscience.”
“It does.” The Incarnation withdrew his hand. In the darkness his smile was difficult to read. “You will be honored for your care for many generations, Doctor. I make you that promise.”
“Thank you, Omniscient.”
“Omniscient!” A new voice called out over the sound of revelry. The new State Oracle, dressed in the saffron zen of a simple monk, strode toward them over the grass. His thin, ascetic face was bursting with anger.
“Who are these people, Omniscient?” he demanded.
“My friends, minister.”
“They are destroying the gardens!”
“They are my gardens, minister.”
“Vanity!” The Oracle waved a finger under the Incarnation’s nose. Kunlegs grunted and started forward, but the Incarnation stopped him with a gesture.
“I am pleased to accept the correction of my ministers,” he said.
“Vanity and indulgence!” the Oracle said. “Has the Buddha not told us to forsake worldly desires? Instead of doing as Shakyamuni instructed, you have surrounded yourself with followers who indulge their own sensual pleasures and your vanity!”
“Vanity?” The Incarnation glanced at the Jewel Pavilion. “Look at my summer palace, minister. It is a vanity, a lovely vanity. But it does no harm.”
“It is nothing! All the palaces of the world are as nothing beside the word of the Buddha!”
The Incarnation’s face showed supernal calm. “Should I rid myself of these vanities, minister?”
“Yes!” The State Oracle stamped a bare foot. “Let them be swept away!”
“Very well. I accept my minister’s correction.” He raised his voice, calling for the attention of his followers. A collection of drunken rioters gathered around him. “Let the word be spread to all here,” he cried. “The Jewel Pavilion is to be destroyed by fire. The gardens shall be uprooted. All statues shall be smashed.” He looked at the State Oracle and smiled his cold smile. “I hope this shall satisfy you, minister.”
A horrified look was his only reply.
The Incarnation’s followers laughed and sang as they destroyed the Jewel Pavilion, as they toppled statues from its roof and destroyed furniture to create bonfires in its luxurious suites. “Short Path!” they chanted. “Short Path!” In the theater the opera began, an old Tibetan epic about the death by treachery of the Sixth Earthly Gyalpo Rinpoche, known to his Mongolian enemie
s as the Dalai Lama. Jigme found a quiet place in the garden and sat in a full lotus, repeating sutras and trying to calm his mind. But the screams, chanting, songs, and shouts distracted him.
He looked up to see the Gyalpo Rinpoche standing upright amid the ruin of his garden, his head raised as if to sniff the wind. Kunlegs was standing close behind, caressing him. The light of the burning palace danced on his face. The Incarnation seemed transformed, a living embodiment of … of what? Madness? Exultation? Ecstasy? Jigme couldn’t tell, but when he saw it he felt as if his heart would explode.
Then his blood turned cold. Behind the Incarnation, moving through the garden beneath the ritual umbrella of a Masker servant, came Ambassador !urq, her dark face watching the burning palace with something like triumph.
Jigme felt someone near him. “This cannot go on,” said Dr. O’Neill’s voice, and at the sound of her cool resolution terror flooded him.
“Aum vajra sattva,” he chanted, saying the words over and over, repeating them till the Jewel Pavilion was ash and the garden looked as if a whirlwind had torn through it, leaving nothing but tangled ruin.
Rising from the desolation, he saw something bright dangling from the shattered proscenium of the outdoor stage.
It was the young State Oracle, hanging by the neck.
* * *
“!urq’s despatches have grown triumphant. She knows that the Gyalpo Rinpoche has lost the affection of the people, and that they will soon lose their tolerance.” Miss Taisuke was decorating a Christmas tree in her lha khang. Little glowing buddhas, in their traditional red suits and white beards, hung amid the evergreen branches. Kali danced on top, holding a skull in either hand.
“What can we do?” said Jigme.
“Prevent a coup whatever the cost. If the Incarnation is deposed or declared mad, the Sang can attack under pretext of restoring the Incarnation. Our own people will be divided. We couldn’t hope to win.”
“Can’t Dr. O’Neill see this?”
“Dr. O’Neill desires war, Jigme. She thinks we will win it whatever occurs.”
Jigme thought about what interstellar war would mean; the vast energies of modern weapons deployed against helpless planets. Tens of billions dead, even with a victory. “We should speak to the Gyalpo Rinpoche,” he said. “He must be made to understand.”
“The State Oracle spoke to him, and what resulted?”
“You, Prime Minister—”
Taisuke looked at him. Her eyes were brimming with tears. “I have tried to speak to him. He is interested only in his parties, in his new punishment device. It’s all he will talk about.”
Jigme said nothing. His eyes stung with tears. Two weeping officials, he thought, alone on Christmas Eve. What more pathetic picture could possibly exist?
“The device grows ever more elaborate,” Taisuke said. “There will be life extension and preservation gear installed. The machine can torture people for lifetimes!” She shook her head. Her hands trembled as they wiped her eyes. “Perhaps Dr. O’Neill is right. Perhaps the Incarnation needs to be put away.”
“Never,” Jigme said. “Never.”
“Prime Minister.” The Thunderbolt Sow shifted in her corner. “The Gyalpo Rinpoche has made an announcement to his people. ‘The Short Path will end with the New Year.’”
Taisuke wiped her eyes on her brocaded sleeve. “Was that the entire message?”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
Her eyes rose to Jigme’s. “What could it mean?”
“We must have hope, Prime Minister.”
“Yes.” Her hands clutched at his. “We must try to have hope.”
* * *
Beneath snapping prayer flags, a quarter-size Jewel Pavilion made of flammable lattice stood on Burning Hill. The Cabinet was gathered inside it, flanking the throne of the Incarnation. The Gyalpo Rinpoche had decided to view the burning from inside one of the floats.
Kyetsang Kunlegs, grinning with his huge yellow teeth, was the only one of his followers present. The others were making merry in the city.
In front of the sham Jewel Pavilion was the new torture machine, a hollow oval, twice the size of a man, its skin the color of brushed metal. The interior was filled with mysterious apparatus.
The Cabinet said the rosary, and the Horse of the Air rose up into the night. The Incarnation, draped with khatas, raised a double drum made from the tops of two human skulls. With a flick of his wrist, a bead on a string began to bound from one drum to the other. With his cold green eyes he watched it rattle for a long moment. “Welcome to my first anniversary,” he said.
The others murmured in reply. The drum rattled on. A cold winter wind blew through the pavilion. The Incarnation looked from one Cabinet member to the other and gave his cruel, ambiguous smile.
“On the anniversary of my ascension to the throne and my adoption of the Short Path,” he said, “I would like to honor the woman who made it possible.” He held out his hand. “Dr. O’Neill, the Minister of Science, whom I think of as my mother. Mother, please come sit in the place of honor.”
O’Neill rose stone-faced from her place and walked to the throne. She prostrated herself and stuck out her tongue. The Treasured King stepped off the platform, still rattling the drum; he took her hand, helped her rise. He sat her on the platform in his own place.
Another set of arms materialized on his shoulders; while the first rattled the drum, the other three went through a long succession of mudras. Amazement, Jigme read, fascination, the warding of evil.
“My first memories in this incarnation,” he said, “are of fire. Fire that burned inside me, that made me want to claw my way out of my glass womb and launch myself prematurely into existence. Fires that aroused lust and hatred before I knew anyone to hate or lust for. And then, when the fires grew unendurable, I would open my eyes, and there I would see my mother, Dr. O’Neill, watching me with happiness in her face.”
Another pair of arms appeared. The Incarnation looked over his shoulder at Dr. O’Neill, who was watching him with the frozen stare given a poison serpent. The Incarnation turned back to the others. The breeze fluttered the khatas around his neck.
“Why should I burn?” he said. “My memories of earlier Incarnations were incomplete, but I knew I had never known such fire before. There was something in me that was not balanced. That was made for the Short Path. Perhaps Enlightenment could be reached by leaping into the fire. In any case, I had no choice.”
There was a flare of light, a roar of applause. The first of the floats outside exploded into flame. Fireworks crackled in the night. The Incarnation smiled. His drum rattled on.
“Never had I been so out of balance,” he said. Another pair of arms materialized. “Never had I been so puzzled. Were my compulsions a manifestation of the Library? Was the crystal somehow out of alignment? Or was something else wrong? It was my consort Kyetsang Kunlegs who gave me the first clue.” He turned to the throne and smiled at the murderer, who twitched in reply. “Kunlegs has suffered all his life from Tourette’s syndrome, an excess of dopamine in the brain. It makes him compulsive, twitchy, and—curiously—brilliant. His brain works too fast for its own good. The condition should have been diagnosed and corrected years ago, but Kunlegs’ elders were neglectful.”
Kunlegs opened his mouth and gave a long laugh. Dr. O’Neill, seated just before him on the platform, gave a shiver. The Incarnation beamed at Kunlegs, then turned back to his audience.
“I didn’t suffer from Tourette’s—I didn’t have all the symptoms. But seeing poor Kunlegs made it clear where I should look for the source of my difficulty.” He raised the drum, rattled it beside his head. “In my own brain,” he said.
Another float burst into flame. The bright light glowed through the wicker-work walls of the pavilion, shone on the Incarnation’s face. He gazed into it with his cruel half-smile, his eyes dancing in the firelight.
Dr. O’Neill spoke. Her voice was sharp. “Omniscient, may I suggest that we withdraw? This s
tructure is built to burn, and the wind will carry sparks from the other floats toward us.”
The Incarnation looked at her. “Later, honored Mother.” He turned back to the Cabinet. “Not wanting to bother my dear mother with my suspicions, I visited several doctors when I was engaged in my visits to town and various monasteries. I found that not only did I have a slight excess of dopamine, but that my mind also contained too much serotonin and norepinephrine, and too little endorphin.”
Another float burst into flame. Figures from the opera screamed in eerie voices. The Incarnation’s smile was beatific. “Yet my honored mother, the Minister of Science, supervised my growth. How could such a thing happen?”
Jigme’s attention jerked to Dr. O’Neill. Her face was drained of color. Her eyes were those of someone gazing into the Void.
“Dr. O’Neill, of course, has political opinions. She believes the Sang heretics must be vanquished. Destroyed or subdued at all costs. And to that end she wished an Incarnation who would be a perfect conquering warrior-king—impatient, impulsive, brilliant, careless of life, and indifferent to suffering. Someone with certain sufficiencies and deficiencies in brain chemistry.”
O’Neill opened her mouth. A scream came out, a hollow sound as mindless as those given by the burning floats. The Incarnation’s many hands pointed to her, all but the one rattling the drum.
Laughing, Kyetsang Kunlegs lunged forward, twisting the khata around the minister’s neck. The scream came to an abrupt end. Choking, she toppled back into his huge lap.
“She is the greatest traitor of all time,” the Incarnation said. “She who poisoned the Forty-First Incarnation. She who would subvert the Library itself to her ends. She who would poison the mind of a Bodhisattva.” His voice was soft, yet exultant. It sent an eerie chill down Jigme’s back.
Kunlegs rose from the platform holding Dr. O’Neill in his big hands. Her piled-up hair had come undone and trailed across the ground. Kunlegs carried her out of the building and into the punishment machine.
The Incarnation’s drum stopped rattling. Jigme looked at him in stunned comprehension.
The Year's Best SF 09 # 1991 Page 24
