Cyrus isn’t giving up. “He could have a way into Orion.”
I clench my fists and give Cyrus a what are you doing? look.
He ignores me and gestures toward the transport we returned in. “All this talk of a spy… what if Eli could hack into their system? He’s messed up, I’ll grant you that, but he’s on our side. And if we had a direct line to Orion, around the ascenders… he could be our spy. We’d know who’s a true friend of the Resistance and who’s playing us. Before it happens.”
Basha’s studying me now, nodding. “You can access Orion?”
I shake my head. “That’s just Cyrus’s theory.” I glare at him. “One I’d like to keep quiet. We don’t know what this thing really is.”
But that seems enough for her. “Okay. I could probably get Kamali to—”
“No!” The word gushes out of my mouth.
Cyrus and Basha exchange a look like they’ve been discussing me behind my back.
Fantastic. “Look, Kamali doesn’t need to be involved in this. I’ll figure it out some other way.” I wrack my brain for ideas. “Kamali did this meditation thing with me once. I’ll try that again. That’s something I can do on my own. Or maybe I’ll get Cyrus to set off a flash grenade near my head and that will do the trick.”
Cyrus lifts an eyebrow, like I’m crazy to volunteer for a flash bomb, but that’s honestly preferable to asking Kamali for help. Especially now that I know she has a second.
“Meditation, huh?” Basha says, tapping her lower lip with one slender finger. “Maybe we could ask His Holiness for help with that.”
Cyrus looks concerned. “Eli’s not a believer.”
“I doubt that will shock His Holiness,” Basha says, eyeing me. “The Dalai Lama’s pretty smart. He’ll help you figure out what you need.”
“Wait… the Dalai Lama?” I ask. “I thought he was killed in the purges.” Most religious leaders lost their lives during the backlash against organized religion after the Singularity. Leopold said his Buddhist temple was a burned-out relic by the time he returned. Information about that time period is sketchy at best, but the human descent into anarchy is still pretty obvious, and only the ascenders’ prohibition against organized religion kept the bloody wars from creeping into the legacy cities. At least, that was always the justification. I’m learning to doubt everything the ascenders say.
Basha shakes her head in a sad way. “It’s not exactly safe, even now, to be a holy man. His Holiness has reincarnated seven times since the pre-Singularity Dalai Lama was killed in his temple.”
Seven times. There have only been four generations since the Singularity. “So he’s hiding out with the Resistance?” I guess the believers in the Resistance are free now to practice their beliefs. Yet a reflexive queasiness, born of years as a legacy, churns my stomach. Is there an organized religion here in the camp? What does that mean for non-believers?
“He’s not hiding,” Basha says with a sigh. “He’s helping.”
“His Holiness could have insights into this,” Cyrus says to me. “It’s worth a shot.”
I lean away and give him a fresh look. He dodged my question during the Olympics about being a believer, and his grandfather was a secret Christian like my mom, but I didn’t think Cyrus was a believer too.
“So, what? Are you a Buddhist now?” I ask. Maybe hanging out with Basha was having a bigger impact than I thought.
“Would it matter if I were?” Cyrus asks carefully, eyes narrowed.
I don’t like this sudden tension. “No,” I say quickly. The last thing I can afford is to lose my best friend over some kind of religious feud. “I’m just trying to figure this all out.”
“And I’m trying to help you,” he says, but his voice isn’t strung tight anymore.
My shoulders relax. “I know. Okay, let’s see if His Holiness can help me connect with the fugue state. Monks are big into meditation, right?” My knowledge of pre- and post-Singularity religions is obviously completely inadequate for living outside the cloister of a legacy city.
Basha doesn’t answer, just strides away along the back walls of the barracks. Cyrus and I hurry after her, our boots swishing through the still-damp grass. She brings us around to the front of one tent, then brushes aside the door flap. There are a dozen dark gray cots, minimal privacy, and only one militia crashed out on a bed. She’s probably one of the night patrol, catching up on sleep.
Basha heads toward the back—only then do I see another figure rising up from the floor behind the last cot on the left. The honey brown skin of his smooth, hairless head catches the glow coming through the canvas walls. His clothes aren’t monk robes, just the same green camouflage uniform as everyone else. He raises his hands, pressed together above his head, then brings them back down and holds them briefly in front of his face. Next he touches them to his chest and kneels to the floor.
Basha stops a few feet away. He’s lying face down now, his thin, bony body stretched to its full, not-very-tall length on the woven rug. His arms stretch above his head, his hands flexed up like he’s expecting something to fall from the ceiling and land in them. He only stays that way for a moment, then slides back. Once he’s on his knees again, he pops up to his feet. Now I can see his face: he’s just a kid. Fourteen or fifteen at most, with Asian features.
I’m frozen, staring at this kid with the shaved head. This is the Dalai Lama?
His eyes have been closed the entire time. He raises his hands, like he’s going to do the whole exercise again, but then he pauses with them in front of his face. When he opens his eyes, he turns to look straight at me.
“Eli.” His eyes go wide, and he flicks a look over my shoulder. Then his gaze slowly drifts back to me, and he smiles with all his very-white teeth. “I didn’t see you come in the door.” He says this like he’s delighted about it, which is really odd. In fact, his super-happy look, like he’s a kid on a grand adventure, is completely throwing me. That, and he obviously knows me. Then again, everyone does—something I’m still not used to.
“Your Holiness,” Basha says as she presses her hands together and bows quickly.
Cyrus makes the same greeting.
The kid returns their quick bows with pressed hands, then takes a step closer to us. “You are here because you need my help.” The statement seems directed at Basha, but he’s really looking me over with open curiosity.
I’m thinking this is a mistake, so I keep quiet.
“Eli needs someone to guide him in meditation,” Basha says. “He’s trying to access… well, I’m not sure exactly. I’ll let him explain.”
The Dalai nods, acknowledging her words, but his focus is clearly on me. He edges around her to come closer, and his deep brown eyes dart over my face. He’s short and scrawny, so he has to tip up his head to peer into my eyes.
“You are seeking something,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question.
Cyrus is glaring at me over the Dalai Lama’s shoulder.
I squirm. This is ridiculous. “Yeah. There’s this weird state I go into when I paint. I want to figure out how to control it better.”
His Holiness’s eyes light up. “Ah. You were in this state when you painted Kamali ascending.”
My mouth drops open, but I quickly shut it. I guess it’s obvious that the Dalai Lama watched me paint during the Olympics. The entire world did. “Right.”
He nods, several times, then gestures to the cot next to us. He quickly scrambles onto it, sitting cross-legged at the head and pointing to the foot, where I guess I’m supposed to sit. I climb up and mirror how he’s sitting. A broad smile takes over his face.
“I am delighted you have come to me for help, Elijah Brighton.” His eyes are shining with a ridiculous amount of glee. Like he truly means it from the depths of his scrawny-kid body. But there’s also a world-weariness to his eyes like he’s seen more than he should. It reminds me of the other faces in the Resistance—too jaded, old before their time. Plus this kid is supposedly a reincar
nated religious leader when that kind of thing doesn’t exactly have a long shelf life.
I press my hands together and give the Dalai Lama a quick bow from my seat on the cot. “Thanks. I’ll take whatever help you can give.”
He chuckles, a strange sound that shakes the bed a little.
I frown, wondering if I’ve said something wrong.
“I can’t do anything for you, Eli,” he says, the laugh still in his voice. “Your future depends entirely upon yourself.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” I say. Should I just get up and leave?
The bed squeaks as his bouncing laughter gains volume. Then it tempers to a smile, and he taps two fingers to his temple. “The Buddhist is the master of his own future. He uses his intelligence, his mind, to master his emotions. He studies his world and his own mental system. With that understanding, it is possible for him to transform his own mind.”
Now we’re talking. “The fugue state is definitely some kind of mind-transformed state. I don’t know what it is exactly, but I accessed it once through meditation. I was hoping you could help me do that again.”
The mirth on his face disappears. “You are seeking to master the realm of the mind.”
“Yes,” I say quickly. “I want to control it, so I can use it.” I glance at Cyrus and Basha, who are watching us intently. “To help the Resistance.”
“Ah, of course. You are seeking to use your enlightenment to help others. This is very good. I do this too, seeking the day when all sentient beings will find enlightenment. It can be elusive. Our ascender friends have taught us that the mind is separable from the body. Of course, the Buddhist has always known this, but thanks to the Singularity, this dualism of mind and body is a proven fact. But there remains a question of whether that duality is complete. The Buddhist believes the mind cannot truly arise from the body. Matter is not mind. Mind can never be matter. It is essentially separate from our physical world, the world of our senses, and it existed before.”
“Before what?” I ask, entranced. He’s describing the fugue. Maybe.
“Before time. Before matter. Before organic life or bodyforms or Orion. And after as well.” He pats the camouflage shirt he’s wearing. “I reincarnated into this body, but the body is always temporary. My prior selves were not bound to their bodies any more than I am bound to this one. But the question remains: is there more than simply the mind, as we can perceive it, and as the ascenders have mastered it? Perhaps being tied to our physical selves inhibits our view, even for the ascenders and their non-organic anchors for the mind. One cannot see the top of the mountain until one is nearly at the peak. In this way, perhaps there is something beyond the mind that we cannot discern. You would think of this as a second duality—not of mind and body, but of mind and soul.”
“Soul,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment. “I think I’m reaching for something much… less.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Enlightenment is never something less. It is always something more.”
Enlightenment. I doubt the fugue is that, but if his Holiness thinks it is... “Okay. Enlightenment. Will meditation help me reach for that?”
His smile brightens. “Yes.”
This kid is spouting words and ideas that are making my brain turn sideways. For a moment, I really wonder if it’s possible—could he actually be the reincarnation of some previous Dalai Lama? He certainly knows things no ordinary fourteen-year-old kid would know. Not unlike my own fugue… that thought-train implodes my mind. I physically shake it off. The kid is just repeating what he’s learned from the human nets. Or he’s been training to be the Dalai Lama all his life, so of course, he’s going to know all their philosophical ramblings.
“We can start with the Om Mani Padme Hum,” he says solemnly.
“Um… okay.” I glance at Cyrus, expecting him to be smirking. His face is stone cold. I turn back to the kid. “How do I do that?”
“Curl your hands like this.” He shows me, and I fold my hands into awkward fists. “Then rest them on your knees. We will chant the six syllables, but it is best if you understand their meaning. Om represents the infinite energy of the divine, and the progress from an impure mind and body and speech to the pure mind, body, and speech of a Buddha.”
I nod to show that I’m following, although I don’t really get it.
“The path of that progress is in the remaining syllables. Mani is enlightenment. Altruism. The desire to do more than is just in your Self. Padme is wisdom that knows the emptiness of existence, that there is nothing without enlightenment. Hum is the indivisibility of mani and padme—the unity of wisdom and enlightenment. Do you understand?”
Something compels me to be honest. “No.”
He smiles again, bright and childlike. “I will start. Focus on the words and the meaning as much as you can, then follow me in the chant. It might help to close your eyes, perhaps not all the way. Just enough to obscure the false world around us, to allow you to focus on the true one in the realm of the mind.”
That, at least, makes a kind of sense to me. I let my eyelids fall nearly closed.
The Dalai Lama starts his chant. “Om mani padme hum. Om mani padme hum…” The light timber of his kid voice drops an octave. “Om mani padme hum.” The words ring, filling the air space around me, vibrating the cot and up through my body. My breathing starts to sync with the rhythm of it. Then he shifts the emphasis of the words, and it becomes a song, each word given special accent in each new refrain. It’s like a firm yet gentle hand guiding my thoughts, pulling them in.
The words start to come out of my mouth before I realize what I’m doing. “Om mani padme hum…” At first, it’s a whisper, then louder. My mind tries to grasp the meaning of the words. Infinite energy. Enlightenment. Wisdom and altruism. Emptiness… I picture a wide open field, empty of anything but the warm grass under my feet which are somehow suddenly bare. I feel the sun on my face, but it’s more… like I’m sensing more than just the spectrums of light and heat. I wonder if this is how the ascenders—
The scene shifts, and it’s like a sonic boom pulsing through my body. The grass curls in on itself, turning black and then gray and then there’s nothing but ash in the shape of a million tiny blades. The wind blows them away, leaving barren, volcanic rock behind. I lift my gaze to find the sky has gone gray, and the sun is bloodied with it. Blackened ground stretches a hundred miles in front of me. I turn, looking behind me, but it continues in every direction, uninterrupted.
Emptiness.
Heat rises from the ground, scorching my face. I look down, expecting my bare feet to be blackened as well, but they’re clad in heavy boots, insulated from the moon surface the ground has become.
When I turn forward again, Cyrus and Basha are there, a dozen feet in front of me. They’re curled up on the ground, cuddling. Cyrus’s bulky frame spoons around Basha’s tiny one. He’s hunched, protective, his eyes squeezed shut, a grimace painting his face gray and sickly red in the sun’s wan light.
That’s when I realize they’re both dead.
Air rushes out of me. I stumble forward. I think that my movement has shaken the earth because a guttural rumbling vibrates the air and travels up through my boots. I freeze, but the sound keeps building, like the fugue state when it comes after me, seeking me out in an avalanche of sound, not the whispers of a monk. I tear my eyes away from Cyrus and Basha: a storm coils in the distance, black and red snakes of ash and dust and fire. It’s a thousand feet tall, stretching along the horizon like a tsunami of clouds.
It’s coming my way.
I’m held in place by a gush of fear. The heated wind grows.
Kamali appears, winking into existence in front of me. She’s beautiful and solemn, dressed in her nude dancing outfit, her creamy brown skin turned darker by the hideous light. Her long, curly black hair whips furious tendrils around her, an angry and righteous halo.
It’s coming, she says.
What’s coming? I say, even though I know
she means the storm.
It’s coming, she says again with finality.
I look past her to the roiling firestorm. It’s closer, much closer, speeding toward us, impossibly huge and full of power. Suddenly, my mother and Lenora appear in the distance. They’re dressed in white, twin pillars of power, their blonde hair flying behind them, and I realize what they’re doing, with their hands stretched out, facing the storm: they’re trying to stop it.
How do I stop it? I ask Kamali without looking at her. I’m transfixed by the storm billowing toward my mom and Lenora.
It’s coming, Kamali says for the third time, her voice rising.
I watch with horror as the black cloud rolls over the two women, enveloping and destroying them. I whip my gaze back to Kamali and lurch forward to grab her by the shoulders.
Tell me how to stop it! I demand.
The solemn look on her face doesn’t change. Death is coming, her beautiful lips say.
I know! I have to shout now because the roar of the storm is rising and drowning out all other sound. Kamali, please, I beg. Tell me.
You are the bridge. Her eyes focus on mine, and they’re infinite brown, holding galaxies and timelessness. I stare into them, knowing there’s far more there than I can understand. More than I can even frame a question to ask. But it’s locked away, hidden from me. The storm rushes at us, and I can’t stop it, and we’re going to die.
Just as it reaches us, I rage into the wind, “Nooooo!” The sound starts small, then grows and fills the air, then shifts in pitch—
I’m on the floor, staring at the ceiling, mouth stretched wide with my scream… which is now silent, or maybe cut off, but the echo of it shows on Cyrus’s horrified face looming over me. Basha is on the cot next to us, staring down at me a shocked look on her face. Only the Dalai Lama appears not to be completely freaked out—but his face is deadly solemn.
“Eli,” Cyrus says, breathless, like it’s the hundredth time he’s said it. He rocks back on his heels, releasing my shoulders, which are sore from his grip. “Thank God you’re back.”
But horror is still pulsing through my body. I curl on my side with it, sickened deep inside. I gasp in gulps of air and try not to throw up.
The Duality Bridge (Singularity #2) (Singularity Series) Page 5