by David Bowles
“You don’t have a soul,” Hekima rasped. “You have a self. But you didn’t create that self. It has accrued together over time, coalescing out of bits from the world around, expectations imposed on you, teachings you’ve received, experiences you’ve had. Bah, don’t pout, Offworlder. This truth holds for Pathwalkers as well. Mother Kosiya warned that our leaders’ strict control of our lives prevents gnosis. We waste our time constructing selves that please them rather than souls that can transcend this existence. So she taught us to shatter those selves and build bricolage souls from the pieces.”
“Like Sopiya did at the beginning of time,” Tenshi said, gooseflesh rising on her arms.
“Indeed. As I will now relate to this man you have brought me.”
“Listen, Brando,” Tenshi said, turning to him earnestly, “to one of the stories that gives my life meaning.”
The ramatini laid her palms against the packed sand. Eyes almost shut, she let truth pour from her in a hoarse whisper.
“From nothing, ra-Wanane emerged. The Ogdoad, eight-faceted truth. Four pairs of umbini, dual beings. One of them, Neweru, became convinced its duty was to create life and join with it. Neweru was expelled from ra-Yindawo, the realm of truth, but the trauma of that experience drove Sakra—its male half—quite mad. Sakra seized his complement, Sopiya, and tried to reshape her into something new. Sopiya was violated and reduced, but she fought Sakra with every bit of her being. This schizophrenic struggle is the origin of the Grey Prison, the physical universe. Yet Sakra believed himself responsible, certain that all had arisen from his creative impulse. He imagined himself God, the sole being that existed.
“Unlike Sakra, Sopiya remembered her true nature and understood the danger her complement represented for the universe. However, she saw even deeper truth; her separation from the Ogdoad and Sakra's madness were means to a necessary end: the strengthening and broadening of the Ogdoad itself. She saw the Path in a flash of wisdom, grasping her role in the self-actualization of the very universe, a process we call aburakusa.
“Ceasing her struggle, she did shamanga—put herself in Sakra's power and allowed him to break her.”
The ramatini then recited one of the most significant lines of scripture ever:
“Shamanichu yewano biye, tenshi zikwepachu.”
Brando held up his hand. “Pardon me. ‘Her body burst, becoming Tenshi’? Like, literally this Tenshi right here?”
“No, sightless child. Sparks of truth, the word means. Inyoni Onamata gave her daughters good Pathwalker names. Tenshi, the Spark of Truth. Samanei, the Unblind.”
Tenshi could see linguistic curiosity bubbling in Brando’s eyes, but the priestess kept speaking.
“These innumerable pieces of her being drifted throughout the Grey Prison, merging with the illusory physical universe. As human life arose and spread, Sakra in his madness again believed himself the cause. From time to time he intrudes on our minds, warping our perception and making us worship his cruel and childish ways. But every human is linked to a spark of truth, a bit of Sopiya's broken body. By recognizing and drawing that spark into themselves, they begin to build a soul around the spark that can survive beyond death and make its way to the Ogdoad. Thus has Sopiya's sacrifice led to our transcendence, and our transcendence brings her back into being.’
Tenshi put her hand on Brando’s arm. It was trembling, to her surprise. “Sopiya is wisdom, don’t you see? Knowledge used for good, energy used to create, love used to edify. And that's what I believe, umpenzi. Here in this holy place, under the ramatini’s watchful eye, I saw my spark of truth. It spoke to me.”
Brando was leaning forward, eyes on the meteorite. For a moment, Tenshi thought he wasn’t listening. Frustration blossomed on her face, furrowing her brows, heating her cheeks. But then he spoke.
“I want to try it, Tenshi. Something—fate or I don’t know what—drew me here. I knew when I saw your buildings, was certain when I saw your face.” He looked up. There were tears in his eyes. “If there’s a spark in me, I have to know. If there’s a voice trying to make itself heard, I must listen.”
The ramatini pushed herself to her feet. “Indeed you must. I will prepare the High Sacrament.”
Tenshi held Brando’s hand in silence while Hekima Umchawi ground mohiyo leaves in a mortar of volcanic stone.
“That’s what they make moku from, no?” he said finally, his voice faint and trembling.
“Yes. But this is the unprocessed plant. Its effects are very different, and not addictive. I promise you I would never expose you to something harmful.”
He stroked the back of her hand with his free fingers. The sensation spread up her arm and throughout her entire body.
“You told her you love me.”
“Because I do. More than anything. The fact that you’re willing to do this makes me even more certain. I want you by my side, Brando. Forever.”
The ramatini approached them. “Here. Drink this down. It’s bitter, but take it all in.”
He did as she instructed. Tenshi remembered the slimy, pungent taste. And the visions that had come so quickly after consuming the mash.
Hekima took the mortar from him. “Put your hands upon the Urim.”
Brando leaned forward and grasped two of the spikes.
Tenshi stood, kissing the top of his head. “We have to leave you, my love. The vision, the voices: they are for you alone.”
The wait would have been interminable except that Tenshi needed guidance from the kedarumsha on her plans. Others—including Samanei—might claim to hear the Ogdoad, but Tenshi knew her teacher could.
They were deep into a conversation on strategy when Brando came stumbling from the sanctum, eyes wide, breath labored.
“Mothergod, Tenshi!” he gasped. “I had no idea.”
She hurried to his side, helped him ease onto a rug. He leaned his elbows on the low table and stared at the two women.
“When I was a child,” he said, “my family visited the Basilica della Santa Casa. You may not know it, but it contains the Holy Home, where the Mother of God, her son, and Joseph their earthly protector lived. Just now, I found myself there again.”
His eyes drooped, but he shook himself back to consciousness.
“I was looking at the figure of the Black Madonna, inside the Holy Home. She cracked open, full of blue light. From within it emerged …. Sopiya. I’m not sure how I know, but there was a certainty in my heart. Tenshi, she looked just like you. Only older, with lighter skin. Those same sunburst eyes, though. She spoke a language I didn’t understand.”
Tenshi’s heart skipped a beat. Impossible. That was … that was my vision, nearly a decade ago.
“I think it was Esperanto.” He closed his eyes as if trying to remember. “There was shock in her eyes. ‘Ho, fek. Brando, vi aspektas tiel juna.’ She knew my name. Then she said, in Standard, ‘Forgive me. But there’s a reason for the pain. Always remember. Your love matters.’ There were tears in her eyes.”
Tenshi’s entire body thrummed with prescience.
“Don’t be afraid,” she said to me, my spark of truth, so like me and yet so different. “The end will come too soon, but it won’t be the end. You’ll be translated. I promise.”
I can’t tell him that. He’ll despair. And who knows what “too soon” might mean?
“But then,” Brando groaned, “there was another voice. So cold, so void of light, that it obliterated the vision. It didn’t say much, but my skin’s still crawling, just remembering the touch of that presence on my heart, the swirling echo of that inhuman sound.”
“Sakra.” Tenshi shuddered. “What did that bastard say to you?”
Tears streamed down Brando’s cheeks. His words chilled Tenshi’s very blood.
“You seek shattering? I will break you.”
Turning his face to the priestess, Brando whispered, using honorific religious language that Tenshi had never imagined she’d hear from his lips. “Kedarumshanim, what does it mean? Guid
e me well. I place my spark in your honored hands.”
Hekima Umchawi pointed at the door. “Tenshi, please go outside and meditate. I need to speak to this new matakite alone.”
“Seer?” Brando asked. “But I’ve done nothing to deserve that title. I’m not even a Pathwalker.”
The ramatini’s eyes softened as she smiled. “Child, you have had the vision. Once you’ve peered beyond the Grey Prison, there’s no unseeing what you’ve seen. You are on the Path.”
As Tenshi stepped out into the star-bangled night, she didn’t know whether to rejoice or regret.
INTERCHAPTER C
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Condoglianze
Date: May 25, 2683 3:45:42 (SST)
Brando! Come stai, fratello? I’ve been calling your hospital room, but a woman keeps answering. Is she your new partner? Good choice. Kitoko.
What is this about you getting shot at by Mafiosi? Proprio come il nostro papà. You definitely take after our father. Always getting involved in stuff that isn’t yall’s affair. You went there to teach, no? Ebbene, teach! Leave fighting the bad guys to the police! Anyway, I hope you get better soon. Don’t to forget to call us when you are well, so that we can stop worrying, eh?
Eh, nsango malamu: me and Ayanna, it looks like we’re gonna get engaged. I hope you’re not upset, but we get along perfect. All things work out, eh? You and her just couldn’t stand each other, but now we’re in love. She’s got the most beautiful voice. Mamma’s asked me to make her succentrix, che te ne pare? I’ll finally have a second-in-command helping me lead the choir, which has burgeoned considerably in the last few years that you haven’t been attending.
Well, I’ve got to go choose the music for Mamma’s mass, sta bene? You rest and we’ll talk some other time.
Edoardo D’Angelo di Makomo
Cantor
La Chiesa del Santissimo Redentore
* * *
Annexation: A Necessary Step
Outward
Editorial Staff
30 May, 2683- A week ago, a fair celebrating the 150th anniversary of the founding of Jitsu was shattered by a brutal massacre. A group of two dozen men dressed in non-descript black body armor encircled the fairgrounds and proceeded to exterminate in cold blood those who in attendance, with no apparent motive beyond chaos. Accusations began to fly in the aftermath: Jitsu’s Civil Security was powerless before even such a small group of terrorists or criminals. In fact, it was a Jitsuan architect, Tenshi Koroma, who incredibly managed to turn the tide with the most improbable of weapons.
In addition to this weakness on the part of local law enforcement, pro-Consortium reformers on Jitsu assert that the Dominian sect of Neo Gnosticism, fundamentalists with isolationist tendencies, may be responsible for the massacre. The claim is that Dominians seek to turn public sentiment against reform and Consortium membership. That accusation is bolstered by the fact that one of the most powerful Dominians in Jitsuan politics, Prefect Santo Koroma (and we of Outward do indeed notice the coincidence in surnames), had just proposed a group of anti-terrorism squads, manned by non-citizens. An interesting proposal from a man who once said, “Jitsu will never be enlightened till it turns its back on the rest of humanity.”
Others, like noted travel entrepreneur Captain Ambarina Lopes, insist that the men who massacred more than seventy people were in fact underworld soldiers, yakuza or “yaks,” in common parlance. Yegsters, demimen, gunsels: a multiplicity of words exists for this infestation of vermin that spoils the Consortium despite our repeated efforts to eliminate them. The speculation is that certain syndicates, having been pushed out of the Solar System (c.f. the unsuccessful Jupiter Uprising), are now attempting to gain a foothold on the new colonies and independent worlds. If this scenario (or any combination of the above scenarios) is true, then the CPCC’s course is clear. For the sake of humanity’s stability, annexation must become our policy.
Outward is an unabashed expansionist outlet. Our political views are a matter of public record, and we will not back down from that stance. But even the opposition parties can see the logic now. Anti-expansionists are quick to point to the historic dangers of imperialism (without pausing to note the very different organization, goals and methods of the Consortium) and to the need of humans in the CPCC to integrate themselves completely into the new colonies we have created, reaching an environmental balance at home before pushing the sphere of our control any farther. But when a world like Jitsu becomes a breeding ground for violence and chaos that could spill into the Consortium, we must ask ourselves if we want to just sit behind imaginary boundaries and watch disaster beget disaster.
Localists insist that the Consortium-level controls on human society are extraneous and stifling. With insane avoidance of the probable results, these extremists not only insist that we leave independent worlds alone, but that we bit by bit weaken the topmost layer of government till most power rests in the hands of local authorities. Like those of Jitsu, run by extreme isolationists with a middling police force, and Terego, which recent reports show has a theocracy too.
No, the time for pandering to weakness is over. Jitsu must be inducted as quickly as possible. The timetable for Sigma Draconis to be made a member republic also must be stepped up. Terego’s theocratic government must be replaced with something more democratic and its inhabitants’ fear of secular rule calmed. And the new minister of state needs to exert as much pressure as he can on Semanawak and Erin for that those two worlds join us as well. Doing otherwise means inviting back the horrid days of nation-states and ugly wars.
Let us forever remember the motto unfurled beneath the CPCC seal:
“In unity, there is strength.”
CHAPTER 16
Within the swirling dust of the Urakã Nebula, a twenty-six-kilometer-long, roughly cylindrical planetoid now housed the recently completed base of operations for the Brotherhood. At the center of its labyrinthine entrails, kilometers of tunnels navigable solely with special coded pathfinders, Nestor Bos paced the vaulted cavern of an office he’d just been given by his boss. The luxury of his office did little to help. The old mobster was frustrated, as he found himself more and more often, by Beserra’s dismissal of advice that didn’t fit into the mysterious plan that he and that insane Neog had devised.
After the embarrassing slaughter of Chago Martin’s crew two months ago, Nestor had figured the kasike would realize the pointlessness of slowly taking over a planet, twisting public opinion through small attacks on the populace, chipping away at those who might opposed a dictatoriship by frightening them into embracing it as the only answer. He’d had many conversations with his boss after Tripõ Lameda had been confirmed, trying to dissuade him from his plan even as Jitsu readied its squads to hunt down demiman and attack them.
In addition, Yen Bandera had informed Nestor that Jimi Andrade, the young head of the Aztlan Angels, had sworn to destroy the Brotherhood. Nestor begged his boss to shift his attention away from Jitsu and onto this brewing problem, but his advice was again ignored.
Nestor was beginning to tire of the trend. He went along with the kasike because of the principles of L’onda and because of the debt he owed Konrau for helping him eliminate Toni Benemerito. But the more he thought about it, the more Nestor realized that this help had been the cause of his sister Ria’s death.
Eight years ago, Beserra had become the youngest ever boss of the Brotherhood. Not just through his daring strike against Bruno Andrade, head of the Anhele d’Atlan, or even because of his disabling of Boss Benemerito. No, the family heads had accepted him as their leader due to Nestor’s careful management of Konrau’s popularity after Benemerito’s death and his exploitation of most Brothers’ adoration of the materias, especially Ria.
So where was the kasike’s trust and respect for his counselor?
“No,” Beserra had told Nestor after being reminded again about the embarrassing deaths of most
of Chago’s crew. “Didn’t I tell you to make up some dummy crews? You think I give a shite if people think we done lost our touch because of Chago’s fuck-up? Listen close: we’re gonna use Jitsu as a training ground. Learn how to take over slow and easy, use some psychology.”
Knowing how futile it was to argue with Konrau once he made up his mind, Nestor had agreed with a slight lowering of his eyes. He would have preferred the methods used for centuries by legendary bosses like Haime Pachuko-Garsasada and Ramon ‘El Charro’ Arreyano, or even by Baby Face Bustamonte, who had died a glorious death two hundred years ago in this very nebula.
Get an army of little brothers together, gather major weapons and other materiel, invade the bloody place.
These idiot notions of legitimacy and recognition by the CPCC, the motives Konrau kept citing for his plan, were clouding Beserra’s judgment.
Mariya curse the day I patched that bishop’s tunneled communiqué through to him. Neogs. They make me physically sick.
It had fallen to him to gather dirt on the newly appointed captains of Jitsu’s new anti-terrorism squads. Beserra and Santo Koroma had failed to keep absolute control of the squads. Oversight from the Chamber of Deputies complicated the plan. So direct leverage on the squad leaders was needed to make sure the ATS would fail to stop Brotherhood incursions. It all had to look legitimate, hermetic in the face of public and governmental scrutiny.
The gormless plan was a complete pain in the arse.
Shaking off the desire to procrastinate that plagued him in such circumstances, Nestor tunneled a faux conference request to one of his most reliable operatives, an aging ronin named Yen Bandera. Nestor and Yen had begun working together back when Bos was just another sicarito, on the same crew as a young Toni. Bandera had tipped Nestor off to an AF ambush. As a result, the young Brother had kept his crew and many others from being rounded up and jailed for life.