They spoke alone in Miss Taisuke’s townhouse—in the lha khang, a room devoted to religious images. Incense floated gently in the air. Outside, Jigme could hear the sounds of celebration as the word reached the population that the Incarnation was among them once again.
A statue of the Thunderbolt Sow came to life, looked at the Regent. “A message from the Library Palace, Regent,” it said. “The Incarnation has spent the evening in his quarters, in the company of an apprentice monk. He has now passed out from drunkenness.”
“Thank you, Rinpoche,” Taisuke said. The Thunderbolt Sow froze in place. Taisuke turned back to Jigme.
“His Omniscience is possibly the most powerful doubtob in history,” she said. “Dr. O’Neill showed me the spectra—the display of psychic energy, as recorded by the Library, was truly awesome. And it was perfectly controlled.”
“Could something have gone wrong with the process of bringing the Incarnation to adulthood?”
“The process has been used for centuries. It has been used on Incarnations before—it was a fad for a while, and the Eighteenth through Twenty-Third were all raised that way.” She frowned, leaning forward. “In any case, it’s all over. The Librarian Bob Miller—and the divine Avalokitesvara, if you go for that sort of thing—has now been reincarnated as the Forty-Second Gyalpo Rinpoche. There’s nothing that can be done.”
“Nothing,” Jigme said. The Short Path, he thought, the path to Enlightenment taken by magicians and madmen, a direct route that had no reference to morality or convention.… The Short Path was dangerous, often heterodox, and colossally difficult. Most doubtobs ended up destroying themselves and everyone around them.
“We have had carnal Incarnations before,” Taisuke said. “The Eighth left some wonderful love poetry behind, and quite a few have been sodomites. No harm was done.”
“I will pray, Regent,” said Jigme, “that no harm may be done now.”
It seemed to him that there was a shadow on Taisuke’s usual blazing smile. “That is doubtless the best solution. I will pray also.”
Jigme returned to the Nyingmapa monastery, where he had an apartment near the Sang embassy. He knew he was too agitated to sit quietly and meditate, and so called for some novices to bring him a meditation box. He needed to discipline both body and mind before he could find peace.
He sat in the narrow box in a cross-legged position and drew the lid over his head. Cut off from the world, he would not allow himself to relax, to lean against the walls of the box for support. He took his rosary in his hands. “Aum vajra sattva,” he began, Aum the Diamond Being, one of the names of Buddha.
But the picture that floated before his mind was not that of Shakyamuni, but the naked, beautiful form of the Incarnation, staring at him from out of the autowomb with green, soul-chilling eyes.
* * *
“We should have killed the Jesuit as well. We refrained only as a courtesy to your government, Rinpoche.”
Perhaps, Jigme thought, the dead Maskers’ soul were even now in the Library, whirling in the patterns of energy that would result in reincarnation, whirling like the snow that fell gently as he and !urq walked down the street. To be reincarnated as humans, with the possibility of Enlightenment.
“We will dispose of the bodies, if you prefer,” Jigme said.
“They dishonored their masters,” said !urq. “You may do what you like with them.”
As Jigme and the Ambassador walked through the snowy streets toward the Punishment Grounds, they were met with grins and waves from the population, who were getting ready for the New Year celebration. !urq acknowledged the greetings with graceful nods of her antennae. Once the population heard what had just happened, Jigme thought, the reception might well be different.
“I will send monks to collect the bodies. We will cut them up and expose them on hillsides for the vultures. Afterward their bones will be collected and perhaps turned into useful implements.”
“In my nation,” !urq said, “that would be considered an insult.”
“The bodies will nourish the air and the earth,” said Jigme. “What finer kind of death could there be?”
“Elementary. A glorious death in service to the state.”
Two Masker servants, having met several times with a Jesuit acting apparently without orders from his superiors, had announced their conversion to Buddhism. !urq had promptly denounced the two as spies and had them shot out of hand. The missionary had been ordered whipped by the superiors in his Order. !urq wanted to be on hand for it.
Jigme could anticipate the public reaction. Shakyamuni had strictly forbidden the taking of life. The people would be enraged. It might be unwise for the Sang to be seen in public for the next few days, particularly during the New Year Festival, when a large percentage of the population would be drunk.
Jigme and the Ambassador passed by a row of criminals in the stocks. Offerings of flowers, food, and money were piled up below them, given by the compassionate population. Another criminal—a murderer, probably—shackled in leg irons for life, approached with his begging bowl. Jigme gave him some money and passed on.
“Your notions of punishment would be considered far from enlightened in my nation,” !urq said. “Flogging, branding, putting people in chains! We would consider that savage.”
“We punish only the body,” Jigme said. “We always allow an opportunity for the spirit to reform. Death without Enlightenment can only result in a return to endless cycles of reincarnation.”
“A clean death is always preferable to bodily insult. And a lot of your flogging victims die afterward.”
“But they do not die during the flogging.”
“Yet they die in agony, because your whips tear their backs apart.”
“Pain,” said Jigme, “can be transcended.”
“Sometimes,” !urq said, antennae twitching, “you humans are terrifying. I say this in absolute and admiring sincerity.”
There were an unusual number of felons today, since the authorities wanted to empty the holding cells before the New Year. The Jesuit was among them—a calm, bearded, black-skinned man stripped to the waist, waiting to be lashed to the triangle. Jigme could see that he was deep in a meditative trance.
Suddenly the gray sky darkened. People looked up and pointed. Some fell down in obeisance, others bowed and thrust out their tongues.
The Incarnation was overhead, sitting on a wide hovercraft, covered with red paint and hammered gold, that held a small platform and throne. He sat in a full lotus, his elfin form dressed only in a light yellow robe. Snow melted on his shoulders and cheeks.
The proceedings halted for a moment while everyone waited for the Incarnation to say something, but at an impatient gesture from the floating throne things got under way. The floggings went efficiently, sometimes more than one going on at once. The crowd succored many of the victims with money or offers of food or medicine. There was another slight hesitation as the Jesuit was brought forward—perhaps the Incarnation would comment on, or stay, the punishment of someone who had been trying to spread his faith—but from the Incarnation came only silence. The Jesuit absorbed his twenty lashes without comment, was taken away by his cohorts. To be praised and promoted, if Jigme knew the Jesuits.
The whipping went on. Blood spattered the platform. Finally there was only one convict remaining, a young monk of perhaps seventeen in a dirty, torn zen. He was a big lad, broad-shouldered and heavily-muscled, with a malformed head and a peculiar brutal expression—at once intent and unfocused, as if he knew he hated something but couldn’t be bothered to decide exactly what it was. His body was possessed by constant, uncontrollable tics and twitches. He was surrounded by police with staves. Obviously they considered him dangerous.
An official read off the charges. Kyetsang Kunlegs had killed his guru, then set fire to the dead man’s hermitage in hopes of covering his crime. He was sentenced to six hundred lashes and to be shackled for life. Jigme suspected he would not get much aid from the crowd
afterward; most of them were reacting with disgust.
“Stop,” said the Incarnation. Jigme gaped. The floating throne was moving forward. It halted just before Kunlegs. The murderer’s guards stuck out their tongues but kept their eyes on the killer.
“Why did you kill your guru?” the Incarnation asked.
Kunlegs stared at him and twitched, displaying nothing but fierce hatred. He gave no answer.
The Incarnation laughed. “That’s what I thought,” he said. “Will you be my disciple if I remit your punishment?”
Kunlegs seemed to have difficulty comprehending this. His belligerent expression remained unaltered. Finally he just shrugged. A violent twitch made the movement grotesque.
The Incarnation lowered his throne. “Get on board,” he said. Kunlegs stepped onto the platform. The Incarnation rose from his lotus, adjusted the man’s garments, and kissed him on the lips. They sat down together.
“Short Path,” said the Incarnation. The throne sped at once for the Library Palace.
Jigme turned to the Ambassador. !urq had watched without visible expression.
“Terrifying,” she said. “Absolutely terrifying.”
* * *
Jigme sat with the other Cabinet members in a crowded courtyard of the Palace. The Incarnation was about to go through the last of the rituals required before his investiture as the Gyalpo Rinpoche. Six learned elders of six different religious orders would engage the Incarnation in prolonged debate. If he did well against them, he would be formally enthroned and take the reins of government.
The Incarnation sat on a platform-throne opposite the six. Behind him, gazing steadily with his expression of misshapen, twitching brutality, was the murderer Kyetsang Kunlegs.
The first elder rose. He was a Sufi, representing a three-thousand-year-old intellectual tradition. He stuck out his tongue and took a formal stance.
“What is the meaning of Dharma?” he began.
“I’ll show you,” said the Incarnation, although the question had obviously been rhetorical. The Incarnation opened his mouth, and a demon the size of a bull leapt out. Its flesh was pale as dough and covered with running sores. The demon seized the Sufi and flung him to the ground, then sat on his chest. The sound of breaking bones was audible.
Kyetsang Kunlegs opened his mouth and laughed, revealing huge yellow teeth.
The demon rose and advanced toward the five remaining elders, who fled in disorder.
“I win,” said the Incarnation.
Kunlegs’ laughter broke like obscene bubbles over the stunned audience.
“Short Path,” said the Incarnation.
* * *
“Such a shame,” said the Ambassador. Firelight flickered off her ebon features. “How many man-years of work has gone into it all? And by morning it’ll be ashes.”
“Everything comes to an end,” said Jigme. “If the floats are not destroyed tonight, they would be gone in a year. If not a year, ten years. If not ten years, a century. If not a century…”
“I quite take your point, Rinpoche,” said !urq.
“Only the Buddha is eternal.”
“So I gather.”
The crowd assembled on the roof of the Library Palace gasped as another of the floats on Burning Hill went up in flames. This one was made of figures from the opera, who danced and sang and did combat with one another until, burning, they came apart on the wind.
Jigme gratefully took a glass of hot tea from a servant and warmed his hands. The night was clear but bitterly cold. The floating throne moved silently overhead, and Jigme stuck out his tongue in salute. The Gyalpo Rinpoche, in accordance with the old Oracle’s instructions, had assumed his title that afternoon.
“Jigme Dzasa, may I speak with you?” A soft voice at his elbow, that of the former Regent.
“Of course, Miss Taisuke. You will excuse me, Ambassador?”
Jigme and Taisuke moved apart. “The Incarnation has indicated that he wishes me to continue as head of the government,” Taisuke said.
“I congratulate you, Prime Minister,” said Jigme, surprised. He had assumed the Gyalpo Rinpoche would wish to run the state himself.
“I haven’t accepted yet,” she said. “It isn’t a job I desire.” She sighed. “I was hoping to have a randy incarnation, Jigme. Instead I’m being worked to death.”
“You have my support, Prime Minister.”
She gave a rueful smile and patted his arm. “Thank you. I fear I’ll have to accept, if only to keep certain other people from positions where they might do harm.” She leaned close, her whisper carrying over the sound of distant fireworks. “Dr. O’Neill approached me. She wished to know my views concerning whether we can declare the Incarnation insane and reinstitute the Regency.”
Jigme gazed at Taisuke in shock. “Who supports this?”
“Not I. I made that clear enough.”
“Daddy Carbajal?”
“I think he’s too cautious. The new State Oracle might be in favor of the idea—he’s such a strict young man, and, of course, his own status would rise if he became the Library’s interpreter instead of subordinate to the Gyalpo Rinpoche. O’Neill herself made the proposal in a veiled manner—if such-and-such a thing proved true, how would I react? She never made a specific proposal.”
Anger burned in Jigme’s belly. “The Incarnation cannot be insane!” he said. “That would mean the Library itself is insane. That the Buddha is insane.”
“People are uncomfortable with the notion of a doubtob Incarnation.”
“What people? What are their names? They should be corrected!” Jigme realized that his fists were clenched, that he was trembling with anger.
“Hush. O’Neill can do nothing.”
“She speaks treason! Heresy!”
“Jigme.…”
“Ah. The Prime Minister.” Jigme gave a start at the sound of the Incarnation’s voice. The floating throne, its gold ornaments gleaming in the light of the burning floats, descended noiselessly from the bright sky. The Incarnation was covered only by a reskyang, the simple white cloth worn even in the bitterest weather by adepts of tumo, the discipline of controlling one’s own internal heat.
“You will be my Prime Minister, yes?” the Incarnation said. His green eyes seemed to glow in the darkness. Kyetsang Kunlegs loomed over his shoulder like a demon shadow.
Taisuke bowed, sticking out her tongue. “Of course, Omniscient.”
“When I witnessed the floggings the other day,” the Incarnation said, “I was shocked by the lack of consistency. Some of the criminals seemed to have the sympathy of the officials, and the floggers did not use their full strength. Some of the floggers were larger and stronger than others. Toward the end they all got tired, and did not lay on with proper force. This does not seem to me to be adequate justice. I would like to propose a reform.” He handed Taisuke a paper. “Here I have described a flogging machine. Each strike will be equal to the one before. And as the machine is built on a rotary principle, the machine can be inscribed with religious texts, like a prayer wheel. We can therefore grant prayers and punish the wicked simultaneously.”
Taisuke seemed overcome. She looked down at the paper as if afraid to open it. “Very … elegant, Omniscient.”
“I thought so. See that the machine is instituted throughout humanity, Prime Minister.”
“Very well, Omniscient.”
The floating throne rose into the sky to the accompaniment of the murderer Kunlegs’ gross bubbling laughter. Taisuke looked at Jigme with desperation in her eyes.
“We must protect him, Jigme,” she said.
“Of course.”
“We must be very, very careful.”
She loves him, too, he thought. A river of sorrow poured through his heart.
Jigme looked up, seeing Ambassador !urq standing with her head lifted to watch the burning spectacle on the hill opposite. “Very careful indeed,” he said.
* * *
The cycle of festivals continued.
Buddha’s birthday, the Picnic Festival, the time of pilgrimage …
In the Prime Minister’s lha khang, the Thunderbolt Sow gestured toward Taisuke. “After watching the floggings,” it said, “the Gyalpo Rinpoche and Kyetsang Kunlegs went to Diamond City spaceport, where they participated in a night-long orgy with ship personnel. Both have now passed out from indulgence in drink and drugs, and the party has come to an end.”
The Prime Minister knit her brows as she listened to the tale. “The stories will get offworld now,” Jigme told her.
“They’re already offworld.”
Jigme looked at her helplessly. “How much damage is being done?”
“Flogging parties? Carousing with strangers? Careening from one monastery to another in search of pretty boys? Gracious heaven—the abbots are pimping their novices to him in hopes of receiving favor.” Taisuke gave a lengthy shudder. There was growing seriousness in her eyes. “I’ll let you in on a state secret. We’ve been reading the Sang’s despatches.”
“How?” Jigme asked. “They don’t use our communications net, and the texts are coded.”
“But they compose their messages using electric media,” Taisuke said. “We can use the Library crystal as a sensing device, detect each character as it’s entered into their coding device. We can also read incoming despatches the same way.”
“I’m impressed, Prime Minister.”
“Through this process, we were kept informed of the progress of the Sang’s military buildup. We were terrified to discover that it was scheduled to reach its full offensive strength within a few years.”
“Ah. That was why you consented to the increase in military allotments.”
“Ambassador !urq was instructed not to resolve the Gyangtse matter, in order that it be used as a casus belli when the Sang program reached its conclusion. !urq’s despatches to her superiors urged them to attack as soon as their fleet was ready. But now, with the increased military allotments and the political situation, !urq is urging delay. The current Incarnation, she suspects, may so discredit the institution of the Gyalpo Rinpoche that our society may disintegrate without the need for a Sang attack.”
The Year's Best SF 09 # 1991 Page 23