Transcendent

by Stephen Baxter

  “Not everybody who lived before the age of enlightenment was a fool, you know. Whatever is going on here, whatever her origin—what if Morag is not the first manifestation of her kind? If there have been earlier Morags in history, the thinkers of the day will have tried to explain her away in the language of the time, in concepts alien to us. But their analysis may record some imperfectly understood aspect of the truth.”

  This was overwhelming me. Exhausted, still in pain, I shook my head.

  Rosa was watching me. “I don’t think it’s the nature of Morag’s transmogrified body that is troubling you, though. Is it, Michael? You have her back,” she said gently. “And it isn’t as you imagined.”

  It was hard for me to answer this, for I hadn’t yet admitted it to myself, and Morag and I had come nowhere near talking it through. But she was right. “We can’t talk,” I said. “Not really. Oh, we can talk about our old lives, what happened to us, what we shared before she, well, died. But even that is odd. For her it’s recent; for me it’s seventeen years ago. Even the memories don’t feel the same anymore. Then there are the trivial things, the little things. We trip up all the time. The world has moved on while she was away, and I lived through it all. But I have to explain everything, like she’s a tourist from some other place.”

  Rosa said, “She was taken out of the world, but the world kept turning. And the more the years have passed, the more has happened that she simply did not see, did not share with you.”

  “The dead get deader,” I said somberly. “I feel ashamed that I can’t—”

  “That you can’t love her? Don’t be ashamed, Michael. You didn’t ask for this situation; you may be in a situation nobody has ever had to face before. No wonder your emotions are all over the place. But you’re doing your best, for everybody, including Morag. Just as you always do. I have faith in you, you know.”

  “Thank you.”

  Rosa watched me carefully. “What about your work, Michael? Is all this getting in the way?”

  Of course it was. I glanced at the clock. Not yet five-thirty, but I knew I had a breakfast appointment at seven A.M.

  I was working hard, because I believed in it all. Since the bombing, as I had immersed myself in the hydrate project, I had thought harder than I had ever before about the context of my life, the meaning of my work. I had discovered conviction in myself, for the first time since I was a kid, before cynicism knocked it all out of me. We had to do this; it was as simple as that. And I was central to it all.

  “Gea keeps telling me she believes I am a fulcrum of history,” I said. “Me. And you’ve said the same might be true. Even George said it. Now I’ve started to believe it, to believe my own myth. Is that crazy?”

  “Not necessarily. But Morag is getting in your way.”

  “I guess so.”

  “The restoration of a lost wife is a fantasy of redemption. I daresay it was your fantasy. But has it made you happier?”

  I thought that over. “Even if you give me Morag back, you can’t wash it all away. The memories of her death. All that suffering, all that pain. It’s as if it still exists, out there somewhere, beyond reach. . . . Does that make sense?”

  “And what do you fear most?”

  “That I will come to hate her,” I said honestly. “I don’t think I could bear that.”

  She straightened up, purposeful. “We don’t know how she got here. We don’t know the meaning behind your visitations, this strange reincarnation. We don’t know who is meddling with your life in this way, or why. But we must take control of the situation, so that, with or without Morag, you can move on. I think it’s time we bring it to a head.”

  “Bring it to a head? How?”

  I would never in a thousand years have guessed the word she used next.

  “Exorcism.”

  Chapter 52

  They sat in their translucent-walled tent, beneath the towering cathedral.

  “I still have doubts about the Redemption, Leropa.”

  “I know. The Transcendence knows. You have become something of a focus, Alia, for internal debate.”

  “If you’re going to say that I’m not fit to question the wisdom of an infinite entity—a being that is to me as I am to an individual cell of my body—”

  “I wouldn’t dream of saying any such thing,” Leropa murmured. “Your humanity is the point of the exercise, Alia. The Transcendence loves you as you are. And the Transcendence’s love for you means that it knows you—it shares your doubts. You are far more important than you know.”

  “You already said the Transcendence loves me,” Alia said dully. “Several times.” It seemed to mean nothing. Perhaps the Transcendence was too large to know what love truly was. Perhaps the finitude of humanity was part of what made love work; perhaps the need to devote such a large fraction of your own limited life to others made love precious in the first place. Or perhaps, she thought guiltily, perhaps it was simply immature, emotionally. Powerful it might be, but it was very young.

  And if the Transcendence didn’t understand love, could it ever understand the logic of Redemption?

  “Even the Restoration isn’t enough,” whispered Alia. “How can it be? Just to be made alive again—it simply isn’t enough. Leropa, can’t you see that? Michael Poole loved Morag. His Morag, who died. And his love for his Morag, in the end, encompassed her death. His loss deepened his love, enriched it. That is the nature of life in a universe of mortals. If you crudely reverse her death, simply bring her back, then you are taking her out of her context of history. How did Michael Poole put it? . . .”

  “The dead get deader,” Drea said bleakly.

  “And you can never put that right.” Alia took a deep breath; this was the heart of it, though she scarcely knew how to express it. “The Restoration is futile, as futile as all the watching was, the Witnessing, even the Hypostatic Union. Because even if you allow Morag Poole to survive the suffering of her childbirth, that particle of suffering still exists, out there in a wider universe of possibility.”

  Leropa stared at Alia for long heartbeats. For the first time Alia detected hostility in her gaze. “You reject the Restoration,” Leropa said. “But I wonder how you would feel if those you have lost were Restored to you.”

  A shadow moved on the wall of the hut—a human form, dimly seen, perhaps a woman with an infant in her arms. She walked uncertainly, as if lost. Drea’s eyes widened, and she clutched at Alia.

  Alia snapped, “Leropa. Don’t do this.”

  Leropa smiled thinly. “Think about your own mother, your baby brother. They died in pain, pain beyond your imagination. At least your brother, an infant, didn’t know what was happening. But your mother knew. In those last heartbeats an awareness of her approaching death, the loss of the rest of her life—the loss of you—deepened her anguish, exponentiated it far beyond the physical. But it needn’t be that way.”

  Alia glared at Leropa. “You call it love, to inflict this horror upon us?”

  Leropa actually seemed puzzled by her choice of words. “Inflict?”

  Drea buried her head on her sister’s shoulder. “Make her stop, Alia. I can’t bear it.”

  That shadowy woman seemed to spot the hut. She walked slowly toward it, clutching her child. She seemed confused and exhausted, as if she had been through a great trial. But through the misty translucence of the hut’s walls her features were gradually becoming clearer.

  Leropa said, “Don’t you even want to say good-bye to her? Don’t you even want to say sorry?”

  “Leropa, I’m begging you.”

  The woman hesitated again. She paused for a moment, looking around. She seemed to be murmuring comforting words to the child in her arms. Then she turned away and walked off, her figure diminishing and blurring, until she was gone, as if she had never existed at all.

  Drea glared at Leropa through tear-streaked eyes. “You know what the trouble is? You Transcendents, with all your obsession with the past, don’t listen to people. I’v
e had enough of being used. Leropa, if you Transcendents want to use the people of the past as a dumping ground for your guilt, then you ought to ask them first. You should have asked Michael Poole if he wanted his wife back!”

  Leropa sighed. “What if we asked you? Alia, would you choose never to have even the possibility of seeing your mother again? You might refuse now—but how can you be sure how you will feel in ten years, or fifty, or a thousand? You will be an undying, Alia; you would have a long time to regret such a choice.

  “And even if you did make the choice for yourself, would you make it on behalf of others? Your father, for example? The rest of humanity, you have never even met? You are arrogant, Alia—and that’s not necessarily a bad thing—but I don’t think even you are arrogant enough for that. So what do we do? Ask them all?” She laughed, a strange, dry sound. “Shall we take a vote?”

  “Appoint a representative,” Alia said impulsively.

  Leropa glared at her.

  Alia quailed, but stuck to her ground. “I think my sister’s right. The Redemption is for the benefit of the Transcendence, not us. And in its quest for Redemption the Transcendence has lost sight of simple human morality.” Am I really lecturing a near-god? . . . “Appoint a representative to speak on behalf of the rest.”

  Leropa said loftily, “Impossible. A mere human could not bargain with the Transcendence. She, he couldn’t possibly comprehend the meaning of the choice, let alone make a valid decision.”

  Drea snapped, “You aren’t better than me, Leropa, you wizened old—”

  “She’s right,” Alia said quickly. “Drea, this isn’t about rivalry, about one bunch of humans lording it over the rest. We’re dealing with the Transcendence. It genuinely is a higher life-form, a higher consciousness. You could no more debate with it than a flower, or a blade of grass, could argue with you.”

  Drea said, “You could.”

  Alia smiled, feeling tired. “Actually I’d be in a worse position than you. I am part of the Transcendence itself—it’s true, Drea, already, even though my Election isn’t complete. I am like one neuron among the billions in your head.”

  Leropa said, “A mortal creature cannot negotiate with its god. Only a Transcendence can negotiate with a Transcendence.” But she looked into Alia’s eyes.

  Alia saw the answer there. “Then,” she said, “we must make the representative equivalent to the Transcendence. Just for one day.”

  “Just for one day,” Leropa said slowly. “Well. Quite an ambition. But perhaps it will help resolve this crisis. But who will speak for all mankind?” She smiled coldly. “Michael Poole, perhaps?”

  Oddly, that made sense to Alia. After all, Poole had been the recipient, or the victim, of Morag’s restoration. He knew what was being offered; he had lived through it.

  And then there was Poole himself. After a lifetime of Witnessing Alia knew Poole as well as she knew anybody of her own time. Michael Poole was flawed but decent, a loving and courageous man who tried to cope. He was everything that had been best about the humanity of his era, she thought. “Yes. Michael Poole.”

  Leropa looked surprised, as if a bluff had been called. “Then you must prepare him, Alia,” she said.

  “Very well . . .”

  A deep tremulous fear ran through Alia. What had she got herself into—and how had she got to this point? Was she, little Alia, changing the course of its destiny, and therefore reshaping the path of humanity?

  But she was part of the Transcendence now, and all her doubts and questions were a necessary projection of its own inner turmoil. Maybe it would have come to this decision point by some other route, even if she had never existed. But I do exist, she thought. And I have made this happen. Me. And maybe this strange exercise really would help the Transcendence resolve its epochal confusion over the Redemption. It was a moment of defiant, quite un-Transcendent pride.

  Drea stared from one to the other, her mouth slack, excluded. Alia saw she shivered with fear—of her, of her sister, as much as of the strange old undying, Leropa.

  Chapter 53

  A couple of days after my talk with Rosa, we gathered in the lobby of the Deadhorse hotel, which we’d reserved for our purposes: me, my reincarnated wife, Tom and Sonia, John, Rosa, Gea. Gea had saturated our environs with counter-surveillance technology. We most assuredly did not want stories of what we were attempting that evening to leak out to the press.

  We drew upright chairs into a horseshoe, and we all took our places. John’s lips were pursed, his arms folded, his opinions obvious. Sonia was wide-eyed. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking—maybe, What the hell kind of family am I attaching myself to here? The little Gea toy robot just rolled backward and forward on the floor, somehow reassuring in her absurdity. Rosa sat in her chair, or appeared to; she had a stack of leather-bound books in her lap, and she wore a surplice and a purple stole.

  At the head of the horseshoe, the focus of the group, Morag just sat there, head up, eyes wide open, watching us, expressionless. She was wearing a simple dress, open at the neck, her favorite blue color; her hair was brushed back. When she moved, the chair creaked under her weight. It might have been funny if it wasn’t so strange.

  Tom gazed around the room mournfully. “I cannot believe we’re doing this. Dad, do we have to be here?”

  “But an exorcist doesn’t usually work alone,” Rosa said. “I would expect to work with a younger priest. Someone who could take over if I die, or am possessed. There would be a doctor, to provide medications if necessary. And there would be a family member—somebody strong, in case things get, umm, interesting.”

  “This is all quackery,” John said sternly. “Mumbo jumbo.”

  “It’s an ancient ritual,” Rosa said, admonishing him. “It derives from the New Testament. Christ Himself drove out demons: ‘My name is legion.’ ”

  “I remember that line,” I said. “Lots of pigs got drowned, didn’t they?”

  “The word exorcise actually comes from a Greek root meaning to swear. You bind the demon to a higher authority—Christ—so that you can control it, and command it against its will.”

  Sonia asked, curious, “And is that what’s written down in your little books?”

  Rosa held up one battered-looking volume. “This is the Rituale Romanum, a priest’s manual of services. This contains the formal exorcism rite sanctioned by the Church. Dates back to 1614. I don’t think we have to be too formal today, however.”

  John was mocking. “What, no bell, book, and candle? I’m disappointed.”

  “But I am wearing the required uniform,” she said, smiling. “And I took confession before coming here. I’m absolved of my sins; there’s nothing a demon could use against me during the ritual.”

  “Quackery,” John said again. “After all, what was ‘demonic possession’ but the symptom of some illness—hysteria, multiple personality, schizophrenia, paranoia, some other neuroses—even just a chemical imbalance in the brain? I wonder how many hundreds, thousands of mentally ill people had to endure the cruelty of rites like this?”

  Rosa said, “Maybe a little humility is in order. There may come a time when diagnoses of ‘hysteria’ and ‘schizophrenia’ will seem just as foolish, ignorant, and superstition-laden as talk of demons. Besides, John, belief isn’t necessary for your participation. A funeral doesn’t change the fact of death, but you wouldn’t refuse to attend one, would you? And having attended you would feel better, for through our rituals we feel we have some control over such an extraordinary and powerful part of our lives, even death. This rite is merely a way of managing the ineffable.”

  “So is that what you’re trying to do today? Make us all feel better?”

  Rosa replied, “No. This isn’t just cosmetic. What we have here is a ritual of proven power. And it’s the only way I can think of to break through the barriers inside Morag—to communicate with whatever she truly is, or whoever sent her here. If nothing else this will surely make it clear that we want this state of
affairs to change: maybe just the fact of our desire will get through, our sincerity.”

  “Get through to where?” John demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Rosa snapped. “If I did, perhaps we wouldn’t need to do this. But if you have a better idea I’ll gladly hear it.”

  He had no reply, but I felt he was covering a deeper fear. As he sat there, arms folded, face knotted into a scowl, I felt a surge of helpless, protective love for him; after all he was my brother.

  Morag’s face was expressionless. She said now, “I sure don’t have any better ideas. Maybe if we push at the door, we may find there’s somebody pulling from the other side as well. Let’s do it.” Her voice was clear, calm, strong.

  We all stared at her.

  Rosa said, “Fine. Michael, do you have the props?”

  I had a small bag under my seat; now I brought it out and opened it. “Props? Is that the right word?”

  “Just hand them over,” Rosa said, sounding grumpy herself.

  I produced a small bag of salt, which I set on the floor to one side of Morag’s chair. There was a vial of wine, bloodred, which I put down on the other side.

  Tom asked, “So what’s with the salt and the wine?”

  “Salt represents purity,” I told him. “The wine the blood of Christ.”

  John said, “Shame we haven’t a few relics to hand. A bit of the True Cross. A saint’s toe-bone.” He laughed, but it was hollow, and nobody laughed with him.

  “Wow,” Sonia said. I thought it was the first time she had spoken. “I haven’t felt this way since I messed with a Ouija board when I was twelve.” She sounded as if this were fun, like a haunted-house theme park ride. She held up her arm. “The hairs on my flesh are standing up. Look, Tom—”

  He hushed her. But I envied her lack of imagination.

  I reached into the bag again, and drew out a crucifix. It was a small silver pendant, in fact a legacy from my grandfather Poole, a Manchester Catholic, who died when I was ten. It was only the size of a quarter, with a little Christ like a toy soldier. But it was an extraordinary moment when I held up the crucifix before Morag, and I was aware of everybody staring at the little medallion, the way it caught the light.