The Wild

by David Zindell

  ‘There is always a way toward the truth,’ Malaclypse agreed, saying nothing – and perhaps everything, too.

  Bertram stared at Malaclypse as if he had suddenly acquired the skills of a cetic and could read the warrior-poet’s face. ‘From what we understand of your Order, you warrior-poets share nothing in common with our Holy Church.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  Bertram hesitated. ‘We can think of nothing.’

  ‘Then we must indeed perform some more onion peeling,’ Malaclypse said. ‘For both my Order and your Church share one crucial purpose.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘We, as well as you, are disturbed by the growth of the galaxy’s gods.’

  ‘There are no gods! Bertram said immediately and angrily. ‘No god is there but God; God is one, and there can be only one God.’

  ‘And the name of God,’ Malaclypse said, ‘is Ede, the Eternal, the Infinite, the Architect of the Universe.’

  ‘You are familiar with the Algorithm’?

  ‘We warrior-poets always seek the poetic. In the Algorithm we have sometimes found the most sublime poetry.’

  ‘It’s a mistake to hear the words of the Algorithm as mere poetry,’ Bertram said. Despite the rebuke in his voice, the warrior-poet’s words obviously pleased him. ‘Poetry, however sublime, is made by man. But the Algorithm was given to us by Ede the God.’

  ‘“He will hammer the heavens and the stars will ring”,’ Malaclypse said, quoting from The Birth of Ede the God. It’s difficult to hear this as other than poetry, is it not? Surely you can’t picture Ede as some sort of infinitely vastened human being floating out in the cosmos with a gigantic hammer in his hand?’

  ‘But He will hammer the heavens,’ Bertram said. ‘We must take these words in truth as they were given to us.’

  ‘But in what way are these words true?’

  ‘We must accept this verse literally without asking in what way it is true.’

  ‘But wouldn’t many in your Church dispute this? Don’t your Elidis teach that the Algorithm must be read like poetry if the voice of Ede is to be heard inside the heart?’

  Here, Bertram looked over at a nearby table and snatched a quick, poisonous look at Kissiah en li Ede, the most prominent Elder Architect of the Elidi sect, who sat smiling like a buddha as if he agreed with all that Malaclypse had said.

  ‘You seem to know much about our Church,’ Bertram observed as he looked at the warrior-poet.

  ‘I know that you do not countenance the galaxy’s gods,’ Malaclypse said. And then, uttering the hated word, he continued, ‘I know that you would cleanse the universe of all hakras.’

  ‘What do you know of the hakra devils?’

  ‘Don’t many women and men aspire to the godhead? Aren’t there would-be gods everywhere?’

  ‘Not on Tannahill,’ Bertram said. ‘Not among the worlds of the Known Stars.’

  Malaclypse looked at Bertram sharply. Then he said, ‘But other worlds know other ways.’

  ‘Naman worlds.’

  ‘From Solsken to Farfara, there are a thousand of the Civilized Worlds,’ Malaclypse said. ‘These are not wholly naman worlds. Many branches of the Cybernetic Church have established themselves there for a thousand years.’

  ‘The Reformist heretics,’ Bertram spat out. ‘They are no longer of our Eternal Church.’

  ‘And yet they too would forbid the rise of the would-be gods, if they could.’

  ‘You imply that these so-called Civilized Worlds have allowed the hakra devils to live?’

  ‘It can be hard to keep a man from moving godward.’

  ‘Which worlds?’ Bertram wanted to know. ‘Which hakras – do they have names?’

  ‘It’s said that the Solid State Entity of whom the Pilot has spoken had its origins on one of the Civilized Worlds.’

  Her true name is Kalinda of the Flowers, Danlo remembered. It is known that She was born of Qallar – and once a time She was the greatest warrior-poet there has ever been.

  ‘Are there other hakra devils?’ Bertram asked.

  ‘None so evolved as this Entity.’

  ‘But there are those who have turned their eyes godward in lust for the infinite lights?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Malaclypse said.

  Danlo turned to look at Malaclypse’s beautiful hands. They were folded beneath his chin almost as if he was ready for prayer. The two red rings encircling his fingers touched each other in a figure of eight, thus forming the ancient symbol for infinity. The light from the rings shimmered crimson, and Danlo remembered that Kalinda had been the only other warrior-poet to wear two red rings. But in the end She had betrayed the Order of Warrior-Poets to become a goddess. Might Malaclypse be planning revenge? Did he somehow hope to slay the goddess, She whose vast brain and being was spread across thousands of stars? No, that was not possible. But it was possible, he thought, that Malaclypse could hurt the Entity in another way. Twenty-five years ago, Mallory Ringess had befriended the Entity and had made an alliance with Her. Some said that this union had been almost a marriage. Perhaps Malaclypse hoped to wound the Entity by finding Mallory Ringess and slaying him. If Mallory Ringess truly had tried to become a god, Malaclypse was bound by the new rule of the warrior-poets to slay all hakras and potential gods.

  But why, Danlo wondered, did the Entity not slay him when he fell out above the Earth? Did She spare his life simply because he wore two red rings?

  ‘Do you know the names of these other hakra devils?’ Bertram asked Malaclypse again.

  ‘I know a name,’ Malaclypse said. He stared at Bertram, and it seemed an immediate understanding passed between them as if he had handed Bertram a bloodfruit to eat.

  ‘And what is that name?’ Bertram asked. He spoke loudly and with calculated purpose, letting his voice carry out to the Elders around him.

  ‘There is a man,’ Malaclypse said, ‘who may have attempted to become a god. He was a pilot who lived in Neverness.’

  ‘A pilot?’

  ‘A pilot, indeed. He was the Lord Pilot of the Order of Mystic Mathematicians.’

  This news, dropped into the Hall of the Koivuniemin like a bomb, caused the Elders to explode into shouts of disbelief. The vast room shook with the force of a thousand voices. For a long time, Danlo watched and waited, counting the beats of his heart. Then Harrah Ivi en li Ede called for quiet. She looked down from her reading desk, and to Malaclypse she said, ‘Please tell us this Lord Pilot’s name.’

  Now a thousand Elder Architects were watching the warrior-poet and waiting, too.

  ‘His name,’ Malaclypse said, ‘is Mallory Ringess.’

  ‘Mallory Ringess?’ Bertram immediately asked. He cast Danlo a long, venomous look.

  ‘That was his birth name, the name by which he was commonly known.’

  ‘Then does he have another name?’

  ‘His proper name is Mallory wi Soli Ringess.’

  Bertram continued to stare at Danlo. ‘Does this Lord Pilot bear relation to Danlo wi Soli Ringess?’

  ‘He is his father.’

  Again, the Hall erupted with protest and shouts of anger. One of the Elders pointed her trembling finger at Danlo and cried out, ‘He is the son of a hakra!’

  And an old man near her shouted, ‘What if he aspires to be a god, too?’

  ‘He should be cleansed of his hubris!’

  ‘But what if he is himself a hakra?’

  ‘Then he should be cleansed completely. The universe must be cleansed of all hakras.’

  For some time the Elders of the Koivuniemin discussed the urge to move godward, which was programmed inside all human beings. Some said that this was man’s original program, a wholly negative program that must be rewritten and overcome. Then, from her reading desk, Harrah spoke to the Elders, reminding them that no man was to be held accountable for the programs or actions of his father – or of anyone else. Then Malaclypse Redring told of Mallory Ringess’s astonishing career, from his strange birth to
his discovery of the Elder Eddas, and finally, his ascension as Lord of the Order. He told of how Mallory Ringess, on a dark, deep winter day, had climbed into his lightship one last time and had left Neverness, possibly to go out into the galaxy and become a god. From this great example, he said, a new religion called Ringism had blossomed like a fireflower almost overnight. The Ringists of Neverness – and now many other Civilized Worlds – taught that Mallory Ringess became a real god and would one day return to the city of his birth. They taught that all human beings could become gods, too, and that the path toward godhood was in remembrancing the Elder Eddas and following the way of the Ringess. These teachings were called the Three Pillars of Ringism; which were also the deepest of heresies against the tenets of the Old Church. The Elder Architects listened in horror to his every word. When he finished speaking, there was silence in the Hall. Then, all at once, the Iviomils jumped to their feet and called out such condemnations as, ‘Heretics! Blasphemers! Hakras!’

  Finally, Bertram Jaspari, greatest of the Iviomils, pointed at Danlo and demanded, ‘And what role did this pilot play in the making of the cult called Ringism?’

  ‘He was close to the founders of Ringism, a former pilot called the Bardo and the cetic, Hanuman li Tosh.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No. It’s said that Danlo wi Soli Ringess drank the kalla drug and gained a great remembrance of the Elder Eddas. It’s known that he shared this knowledge with other Ringists at a gathering that attracted a hundred thousand citizens of Neverness.’

  ‘And what are these Elder Eddas?’

  Malaclypse told the Koivuniemin of the deep, genetic memories which an elder race of gods had supposedly implanted inside all human beings. So great was the disbelief in the Hall that even Bertram had trouble speaking. ‘You say that these Elder Eddas are supposedly programs designed to guide humanity into godhood?’

  ‘That is one part of the Elder Eddas, as I understand it,’ Malaclypse said. ‘We warrior-poets do not lose ourselves in remembrance.’

  ‘But you imply that there are other parts?’

  ‘It’s also believed that the Eddas is pure information, pure memory – the collective wisdom of the ancient gods known as the Ieldra.’

  ‘But there are no gods!’ Bertram reminded Malaclypse. ‘No god is there but God, and Ede the God was the first and only god.’

  ‘The Ringists, it would seem, do not share this theology.’

  Bertram looked at Malaclypse, looked at Danlo, and then turned to look out at the many Elders sitting tensely at their tables behind him. ‘The Narain heresy is a denial of our holy Algorithm and an affront to God,’ he said. ‘But this Way of Ringess is far worse.’

  Perhaps he is right, Danlo thought.

  As Danlo studied Bertram’s sharp, fanatical face, he wondered if he should tell the Elders that the greatest of gods, the Solid State Entity, had once been a warrior-poet, even as Malaclypse Redring. And he wondered if he should explain that he had separated himself from Bardo’s new religion long before he had left Neverness and had made an enemy of Hanuman li Tosh even as he had set himself against the Way of Ringess and its dangerous doctrines. But Danlo did not wish to be seen as spiteful or defensive. He sensed that he still had the goodwill of Harrah and many of the Elders – perhaps even most of them except the Iviomils.

  ‘We must ask ourselves,’ Bertram said to his fellow Elders, ‘what should be done about this Ringism cult? What should be done about this pilot and emissary of heretics, Danlo wi Soli Ringess?’

  So adroit had been the verbal dancing between Bertram and the warrior-poet that Danlo wondered if Bertram was performing a play for the Koivuniemin. Had Bertram truly not known of Malaclypse’s presence on Tannahill until Harrah had summoned him into the Hall? Perhaps Bertram somehow had contrived to meet with Malaclypse in secret; perhaps these two dangerous men had made a secret alliance. Looking at Malaclypse sitting so calmly at the table they shared, Danlo thought that this might be possible. For a moment, the whole of Danlo’s awareness concentrated on the warrior-poet. He drank in the peppery essence of the kana oil perfume that Malaclypse wore as well as the intense light of Malaclypse’s eyes. As always, Malaclypse seemed marvellously alive; he seemed always to be poised on the edge of eternity, waiting for some critical moment. Danlo wondered how well the Temple keepers had searched him for weapons. A warrior-poet, he knew, always kept weapons secreted about his person: hidden knives, false fingernails, poisoned darts disguised as toothpicks – and especially explosive siriwa thread woven into the fabric of his garments. Had Malaclypse conspired with Bertram to slay Harrah Ivi en li Ede? It is possible, he thought, and he stared at Malaclypse for what seemed forever. And even as his eyes burned with the beauty of Malaclypse’s deadly form, he saw Malaclypse reaching his red-ringed hand into an inner pocket of his kimono. He saw Malaclypse moving, and yet he was aware that Malaclypse moved not. It came to him that he must be scrying, that this was a prevision of moments yet to be. Because of Danlo’s intense concentration, he took no notice of the other movement that came from behind his table. But just as Bertram pronounced the words, ‘What should be done about Danlo wi Soli Ringess?,’ a large, fleshy-faced Elder named Janegg Iviorvan rose from his chair. He had the end position at a table two rows back behind Danlo, and it took him little time to bluster forth into the centre aisle as if it was his calling to address the Koivuniemin. But his purpose that day was neither speech nor communication. In his large, fleshy hand he brandished an ugly weapon. At the sight of this terrifying thing, several nearby Elders shouted out, ‘He has an eye-tlolt!’ And then, like a wave spreading through row after row, others picked up the panic, until the farthest reaches of the Hall echoed with the warning.

  ‘Death to heretics!’ Janegg Iviorvan cried out. ‘Death to namans!’

  In the moment that Danlo heard the hatred in Janegg Iviorvan’s voice and turned to behold his assassin, many things happened at once. Many Elders tried to flee, their bodies jamming the narrow aisles. Danlo was distantly aware of how the men and women around him reacted according to their deepest programs – whether for self-preservation or some other purpose. Across from him, at the other table of honour, Bertram Jaspari threw his hands across his face and fell shaking beneath his table and Jedrek Iviongeon, too, sought what little protection the plastic tabletop afforded. Twenty feet away, the keepers standing around Harrah’s reading desk jumped into motion as if they had been touched with nerve knives. In such situations it was their duty to swarm Harrah, to cover her with their bodies and bear her with all speed out of the Hall. This they tried to do, but Harrah confounded their efforts. As it happened, one of the Temple keepers was indeed her grandson, a young man named Leander en li Daru Ede. When Harrah perceived the threat of Janegg Iviorvan’s eye-tlolt, almost without thinking, she arose from her chair and threw herself in front of Leander. So great was the force of her fierce old body – and so unexpected her action – that she crashed into Leander, throwing him off balance so that she fell protectively across his face and chest onto the red carpet of the dais. (And all the while, from the devotionary computer on the table in front of Danlo, the hologram of Nikolos Daru Ede flashed out finger signs, warning: ‘Cover your eyes! Use your chair as a shield and cover your face!’) If Malaclypse Redring took any notice of these events, he gave no sign. Of all the people present, save one, he retained the greatest presence of mind. Even at the moment when Janegg Iviorvan’s eye-tlolt was brought to bear in his and Danlo’s direction, Malaclypse reached his red-ringed hand down into his kimono’s inner pocket, and with blinding speed he pulled out a red needle-dart and sprang to his feet. Janegg Iviorvan pointed the tip of the eye-tlolt directly at Danlo’s face. His trembling red thumb held down its catch. The instant that he released his grip (or was struck down by Malaclypse or one of the Temple keepers), the eye-tlolt would fire a missile which would seek out Danlo’s eye, break through the iris, retina and bone and tunnel into his brain. There it would explode, instantly destroyi
ng each of his hundred billion neurons, liquefying his brain much as a bloodfruit is pounded into red jelly.

  I must not fear, Danlo thought. I must not return hatred with hate.

  That Janegg Iviorvan had not immediately released the eye-tlolt’s catch seemed strange. It gave Danlo hope for life. While his heart hammered in his chest like a pulsing star, he looked at Janegg. And Janegg stared at him with his madman’s eyes as if he were looking for something much more than a mere target for his weapon’s missile. Danlo was no cetic, and yet it was not hard to read Janegg’s anguished face. Like all men who hate so terribly, his deepest wish was to love. Like all who set their hearts to kill, he secretly desired life.

  Hatred is the left hand of love, Danlo remembered. And joy is the right hand of fear.

  With a deep breath and emptying of his lungs, Danlo let the fear run out of him like a sighing wind. He felt something deep in his belly, then, a hot rush of life, animajii – the wild joy of simply being alive. He felt oxygen brightening his blood, and blood flowing to every tissue of his body. Although he was always aware of the eye-tlolt pointing at him, he concentrated on holding Janegg’s intense gaze. He smiled at Janegg. Everything that he was, as a man and more than a man, went into this smile. In the way he looked at Janegg – openly, sadly and yet with the joy of infinite possibilities, there was no contrivance of gesture nor falsity of emotion. Danlo’s deep blue eyes were as wild as Janegg’s, and they shimmered with a shared pain.

  I, too, have hated a man and wanted to kill him, Danlo thought. But I must never hate.

  The cries of fear in the Hall around him seemed as distant as the farthest galaxies. Danlo heard Janegg sucking desperately for air, and the inrush of his own breath, and then he heard himself say, ‘If you kill me, you kill yourself.’

  The Elders sitting frozen at their tables nearby, he supposed, might hear these words as a threat of retribution. But he did not mean them so. He only hoped to convey to Janegg the truth of ahimsa, which is that all beings were connected to each other in the deepest way and thus it was impossible to harm another without harming oneself. And so he gave this truth to Janegg. He held Janegg’s fearsome gaze, and freely he gave him all his strength, his compassion, his wild love of life. This was his eye-tlolt, and he fired it at Janegg’s eyes with all the force of his soul. He watched as it went in. Then the terrible hatred frozen within Janegg’s face began to melt like an ice sculpture beneath a warm sun. He licked his lips, coughed, and looked down at the weapon in his hand almost as if he couldn’t understand who had put it there. Danlo chose this moment to remove his shakuhachi from the pocket of his robes. He brought the bamboo flute up to his lips and began to play a melody that was full of suffering and sadness – and yet full of hope, too, in the way that these darker emotions transformed themselves and ultimately gave birth to sheer joy. He played and played, and the notes rushed from his flute like a thousand tlolts, these little arrows of sound that found their way into Janegg’s ears and those of Harrah Ivi en li Ede and the astonished Elders all around them. What happened then was both marvellous and tragic to behold. Janegg’s face was finally free of fear, and he began to smile, grimly and with anguished self-understanding. His arm relaxed and fell to his side. The tip of the eye-tlolt dipped. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. It seemed that he was speaking to himself, perhaps to Bertram Jaspari, to Harrah Ivi en li Ede and all the thousand Elder Architects of the Koivuniemin. ‘I’m sorry – I can’t kill him.’