"Tell me what it is you get, Madam," said the Fisherman, his eyes intense with interest.
Linda raised a shoulder, as if to say it was no big thing. "I get it," she said again. "You're not talking about freedom of choice like I get to control the Universe and everybody in it. You're talking about the choice I have to respond in the moment, no matter the circumstances." She patted the arms of her chair. "Like you keeping me trapped here on Mars," she continued.
William sat back in his chair, his eyelids fluttering as though he'd been hit. "I hope you understand that I take no particular joy in being your captor," he said. "But sometimes the point must be felt, as you are feeling one now. If I have ignored your wish to be free from circumstances, Madam, it was to give you a new freedom of choice you have never before had. You cannot exercise a free choice until such time as the choice has been made clear for you. And the choice I am putting before you is like none other; it requires this extremity of circumstances to make plain. I understand that you do not like it. I ask you to understand that it was not I who put you into this role as choice-maker." William stopped and took a calming breath.
Linda rose and stepped around to again take a seat in her chair. "So who was it that gave me this marvelous opportunity?" she asked.
William glanced toward the sky, then back to the President. "All of the above, Madam," he said. "All of the above."
13.11
The Other-than-Ness stood on the concrete walkway in front of the hospital and looked out over the crowd of faces. She'd risen from her sleeping spot next to Grace, stepped right through the bubble of purple energy and the physical construct that held it in place, and walked quickly and easily down the hallway and out into the night. The nurses at the station had nodded to her as she passed, then fell in behind.
Ness, the woman whose body this was, knew nothing of any of this. The Other-than-Ness had taken complete control.
In front of her, crowded together under the dim light of the Interdict and the few streetlights that still burned, their hair and clothing flapping in the gathering storm, were a few hundred souls, nurses and doctors and soldiers and government functionaries all, and much more than that. They were mostly young, mostly hale and strong, and all highly intelligent. They regarded her with expectation and respect. Other-than-Ness stood in front of them, turning her head slowly to meet them all with her gaze, giving them a moment to recognize who she was. Then she looked to the sky and raised both hands as if in offering or supplication.
The clouds parted, making a small hole, and through that hole in the storm a light descended. A ship. A wok. The lights glowed white then yellow then orange then red as the ship descended, bathing the sea of upturned faces in a beautiful play of color and shadow. The gathered souls parted just as the clouds had done, making a space for the ship to land in their midst. The ship settled quietly to the pavement and faded to dull metal. A triangle of blue light began to sparkle on the ship's side. The beings around it grew still and expectant as a door melted open.
Out walked a being, small and large-headed, robed in red, his huge black eyes glistening in the faint light. He strode forward as the gathered souls parted to create a path for him. Stepping up onto the concrete walkway, he stopped in front of Other-than-Ness. He bowed, then turned to look out over the gathering before returning his gaze to the old woman. But the robed little man did not see an old woman. He saw his daughter, Alice, a hybrid being born of both Human and Alive One, as were all of these gathered souls.
"YOUR PROJECT PROCEEDS AS PLANNED," he said to Alice.
Alice nodded. "IT DOES, FATHER," she said. "I AM GRATEFUL FOR THE OPPORTUNITY." She motioned toward the others with her head. "WE ARE ALL GRATEFUL."
The robed little being, named Spud by the humans who knew him, nodded back. "YOUR GRATITUDE IS NOTED," he said. "YOU SERVE THE GREAT GOAL. THERE CAN BE NO FAILURE."
"SO IT GOES IN THE MIND OF GOD," said Alice, repeating an old wisdom of her people.
"SO GOES THE ONE," answered Spud. He gestured toward the hospital with a flick of his long, spindly fingers. "THE YOUNG ONES ARE WELL?" he asked.
"YOU KNOW THEY ARE," said Alice.
Spud bowed again. "YES," he said. "STILL, I... WORRY," he said, struggling to find the right word. He looked up at Alice. "THEY ARE LOST TO US NOW IN THE BLACK, AS WE KNEW THEY WOULD BE. WE HAVE RISKED MUCH. LET IT BE THAT THE RISK SHALL BE WORTH IT."
Alice reached up to brush a tear from the old woman's cheek. She smiled, a gesture so slight that no one but her father would have even noticed it. "IT HELPS ME," she said, "TO HEAR OF YOUR WORRY. I HAVE MY OWN. THEY ARE MY FRIENDS."
Spud nodded, then turned again to gaze out over the gathered hybrids that watched them. "DO YOU ENTER WILLINGLY INTO THIS PROJECT, MY CHILDREN? ARE YOU READY TO GIVE WHAT AID YOU MAY?"
"WE DO," said the gathered ones in unison. "WE ARE."
Spud turned back to Alice. "THE TIME APPROACHES, DAUGHTER. MAY YOUR EFFORTS SUFFICE."
"MAY THE ONE BE SERVED," said Alice.
Spud bowed. Alice returned his bow. They held each other's gaze for a long moment, then Spud turned and walked back to his ship. Soon he was gone. The gathered souls, and the clouds above, filled in the open spaces they had created for him. The mass of hybrids turned to Alice. Alice stepped into the crowd and began to speak of their next steps.
13.12
"So let me take a moment and make sure I'm following you," said Linda.
The Fisherman bowed his head. "By all means."
Linda pulled her knees up and tucked in her feet. "This whole conversation is meant to free me up to make a decision... a choice... about whether to use whatever virus or poison you guys have concocted to take out most of the humans on Earth. Is that fair?"
"It serves as a rough summary."
"So everything you've done and said has been to that end, then. Showing me the Fortunate. That whole thing about the death wish. Just having this discussion out of our bodies like this. It's all supposed to free me up about death."
"Indeed."
"So why are we spending so much time talking about The Families and the aliens?" asked Linda, her head cocked to the side.
William clasped his hands together. "We learn new ways to think about things by hearing how others think about them, wouldn't you say?" He flashed his eyebrows. "I'm merely explaining to you how we, and the aliens, think about this matter."
Linda frowned for a moment, then looked at William. "And by 'we' you mean your small group of good guys. This Evolutionary Element. Right?"
"I am," said the Fisherman. "When the aliens reached out more directly, we in the Element were ready to meet them on their terms, and chose to align with their goals. The Families' ancient Plan was revised to meet the coming challenges, and to ensure the continuity of the species should humans on Earth choose to follow their destructive path to its likely end."
"And you're planning to explain all of that in more detail?" asked Linda.
"I am," said the Fisherman.
"Okay," she responded with a tired sigh. "Let's keep going."
The Fisherman nodded. "Yes. Right. So, we've established the aliens' primary focus on the evolution of consciousness, and that they are bound by the constraints of the Prime Directive. Does that serve as a concise summary?"
"Sure," said Linda.
"Then let me turn to a quote," he said. "One that will take us where we next need to go. It comes from Elizabeth Kübler-Ross, of whom I'm sure you've heard. She said 'The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.'" He stopped for a moment, then spoke again. "Do you know it?" William raised his eyebrows in anticipation.
Linda shook her head. "I don't think so," she said.
"Then I am pleased to
bring it to your attention," said William. "She's speaking directly to the issue of the evolution of consciousness, and pointing to a key factor in how consciousness evolves: it notices the consequences of its actions and learns from them. The aliens, with their focus on the evolution of consciousness, look for this ability to learn, and make their assessments about other species accordingly. I take it you are familiar with the notion of triage?"
Linda nodded. "Sure," she said. "When you're in an emergency situation and your ability to respond is limited, you first help those whom you deem most likely to benefit from your efforts."
"Nicely defined," said William. "It contains all the elements I wish to speak about. Thank you." The Fisherman twisted in his armchair to get more comfortable. "Now, imagine yourself lying upon a battlefield somewhere. It's dark, so you can't see anything, but you can feel some blood seeping through your clothing. Something hit you in the darkness but you don't know what it was. You must've been shot, you think, but, all in all, you don't feel too bad. Not like the others around you, screaming and gurgling and moaning in pain. The medics come. One kneels down and examines you with the use of a flashlight. He curses, and says "Hang on, okay? You're going to be okay." But the expression on his face says otherwise, and he gets up and goes on to check another person, and another, until he finally calls in a stretcher team. But the stretcher is not for you. The medic moves on and you're left there in the dark. What do you do?"
Linda exhaled sharply. "I think I start yelling for help," she said.
William nodded. "Of course," he said. "Because you feel pretty good, right? Sure, there's some blood, but you don't feel guts hanging out or anything, do you?"
Linda nodded. "No guts, William," she said.
"No guts, no screaming, no moaning, no gurgling, not much pain. 'Just a flesh wound,' as the joke goes."
"Right," said Linda.
"And yet the medic took one look at you, cursed, gave you an obviously false pep talk, and walked away."
"What does he know?" said Linda.
"Right," agreed William. "What does he know?" He looked at Linda and winked.
Linda smiled. "The Parable of the Medic and the Dying Soldier, William?" she said.
William returned her smile. "Quite," he said. "With the human species playing the part of the dying soldier, and the aliens playing the role of medic. And as we quickly see, it is almost impossible for the dying soldier to see what the medic sees, and to trust the medic's assessment regarding which of the wounded he should, in your words, 'deem most likely to benefit from his efforts.'"
"Okay," said Linda. "Got it."
William flashed his eyebrows and continued. "In the case of aliens and humans, the assessment is even trickier, as the wounds they are concerned with are not so much physical as they are psychological, emotional, cultural, and spiritual. When the medic tells you that you're not going to make it because both of your legs have been blown off, you might argue with him, if you're feeling no pain. But if you have a light, you can also look and easily determine whether he's right or not."
"Okay."
"But what if the medic tells you that you're not going to make it because you have unprocessed anger? Or a head full of childish and unfounded assumptions? Or a highly reactive ego-structure that makes it almost impossible for you to look at your own behavior? Were you to ask the medics, Madam, they would tell you that what they encounter on the battlefield of human existence is a people largely mired in a matrix of beliefs, expectations, values, reactions, and assumptions which keep them from reaching the wisdom, maturity, clarity, and understanding they would need not only to survive their present predicament, but to reach for and find their place amongst the stars."
"There aren't any missing legs they can shine their lights on," said Linda.
"Indeed. And people like to think they know themselves pretty well. So it's 'Hey, I'm fine' and 'Why don't I get a stretcher?' and 'You have no idea what you're doing.' But the aliens do have an idea, Madam. They know us intimately. They've known us since before our own history began. There is no one else better qualified to perform triage on the battlefield on this dying planet, Madam. That we do not trust their assessments is simply part of the equation."
"Okay, William," said Linda. She took a moment to let it all in, eyes closed. Then she looked at the Fisherman. "Continue, please," she said.
"So let's test your own reactivity, Madam. I say that the aliens have been here for a long time, inviting us to see, accept, and feel the non-material reality that our best scholarship has already revealed, inviting us to reach out and grab our membership in the larger consensus meta-meta reality, inviting us to join them all in their work of furthering the evolution of consciousness, that 'stuff' from which everything is derived."
"Okay," said Linda. "No reactions so far."
"They've been here all along," William continued, "acting mostly within the dictates of the Prime Directive, and always with the great difficulty that arises when attempting to communicate across radically differing realities. They've acted as teachers, guides, helpers, goads, and tricksters, inviting us into self-determination, into gnosis, into the realization of our full human potential.
"And all the while, Madam, despite their love, despite their caring, despite the great work to which they are committed in this grandest reality, these beings have, by and large, had the good sense, and the grace, to not stand in our way as we've made our choices. They've allowed us, as a culture, as a people, to venture out on our own great vision quest, to see and test the limits of our understanding, knowledge, and power, to learn more fully who we are, and to find our own vision, our own meaning and purpose, as it is given to us by the Formless One who holds us all.
"They've allowed us to drive the beautiful Earth deep into the caves of terror, destruction, pain, disconnection, and delusion, watching us in horror, fascination, and great hope, to see where such an experiment might take us. They've allowed it all, Madam, because they've known, from the beginning, that they were looking for what Kübler-Ross has called 'beautiful people.'"
The Fisherman stopped and pushed forward in his chair. "The beautiful people, Madam. The ones they deem most likely to benefit from their efforts. The ones who accepted the visions their quest has given them. The ones who have noticed and learned from their experiences, and from the consequences of their actions, and from the consequences of this collective death march we call 'the global industrial economy.' People who hit bottom and then pulled themselves up out of the depths. People who did not 'just happen,' Madam. Because this is a time of emergence and emergency, and their resources are limited by the Prime Directive. Because triage is the necessity of our time."
He stopped and took a long breath. "Those humans who have taken this journey are a relative few, I'm afraid," he said, wincing. "Believe me when I say that I am very sorry that this is the case." He sat back and said no more.
Linda sat and stared down at the shoes of the Fisherman for a very long time. Then she looked up. "I swore to serve all of my people, William," she said. "Not just the beautiful ones."
The Fisherman nodded. "And so you shall, Madam. It just won't look like you expect it to look."
13.13
Emily was being pulled, not pushed. It felt different, and the difference was important. Before, when she'd felt pushed, she could imagine somebody pushing her. People or little creatures or monsters or something. But now the images were not of monsters. It was more like falling down a well. Or maybe a black hole. More like circling a drain. More like sliding down a hill. There wasn't anybody pulling her.
Maybe being pushed was better. There was no getting out of black hole, was there? And if it was people, or somebody, pushing her, well, she could maybe talk to people, couldn't she? Or fight them. Or run. Seemed like getting away from somebody pushing was more possible than getting away from something pulling. Seemed like.
None of which mattered at all, because Emily was just a little tangle of thoughts. She had n
o body to do anything with. There was nobody to help. So there was nothing to do but wait and see what happened, if anything ever did. Emily detested waiting.
Emily imagined closing her eyes, imagined sleeping. She was sick to death of thinking the same thoughts over and over. The endless looping chatter. Her own mental Murk. She wanted sleep now, more than anything. Unconsciousness. Relief from the waiting and the not knowing. She wanted to go as black inside as it was outside.
But she didn't go to sleep.
Because one of her thoughts was this: maybe her going to sleep was how the Murk would finally win.
13.14
"I have one last thing I'd like to discuss before I pop off for a bit, if that is suitable to you," said the Fisherman.
Linda smiled. "You keep ducking out to check the basketball scores, William?" she said.
"Cricket, Madam," he said. "Cricket."
"Right," said Linda. "So very British."
William smiled. "Quite. So. Here's the thing, Madam President: I'm guessing that the idea that most sticks in your craw, so to speak, is the whole notion of elitism, the idea that anybody is qualified to triage the human species, that not all of you shall receive an invitation, and that many will be left behind. Am I right?"
Linda nodded. "You are, William."
"Of course," said the Fisherman. "If we had the time, I might unpack an extended analysis of the extreme amounts of shame, judgment, and reactivity to be found in the dominant global culture, and how those factors conspire to enforce conformity, hinder personal growth and maturity, and promote mediocrity. The culture's long shared history of greed, corruption, abuse, trauma, war, and destruction - and perhaps even their ancient abandonment by their alien creators - has left its members, as a people, convinced of their fundamentally flawed nature, and aching for belonging to something larger than themselves."
Rumi's Field (None So Blind Book 2) Page 45