Neon Lotus

by Marc Laidlaw

“He doesn’t know enough,” he said at last.

  “It wasn’t my project,” the man in the lotus complained.

  “It’s some help though, isn’t it?” Marianne asked.

  “If his memories are accurate.”

  “I studied amrita! I knew everything there was to know about the nectar. I don’t understand what’s happened to my memories anymore. They’ve changed in here. Changed, you see?”

  Images of the vajra project faded and in its place appeared a luminous schematic of the amrita’s molecular structure. It did seem changed from the first time Marianne had seen it; it looked brighter now, agleam with power, shimmering.

  “I have it!” crowed the captive mind. “At last I understand!”

  Marianne could hardly believe her eyes. Something impossible was happening in the air above the lotus, in the midst of that complex illusion.

  The air itself seemed to be drawn into the latticework of energy. At the center of the illustration, rippling light condensed into a tiny milk-white bead. It looked so real that she thought she could have reached out and wet her finger in it.

  Suddenly, growing heavier, it began to stretch into a teardrop shape.

  The droplet quivered, fell.

  The three-eyed man gave a startled cry.

  The drop splashed on the pad at the heart of the lotus. Marianne felt some of it splatter her hand.

  “I don’t believe it,” Jetsun said.

  “Yes!” cried the three-eyed man. “I never saw it clearly until now. My mind has been unchained. You see? The idea is so perfect, so precise, that the principle itself creates the nectar. It is self-generating.”

  Another drop formed in the midst of the projection.

  Jetsun thrust his hand over the lotus, into the shining hologram, and the droplet pooled in his palm. He brought it to his nose then held it out to Marianne. She smelled the sweetness of amrita.

  “Congratulations,” she told their captive. “You’ve synthesized amrita out of emptiness.”

  “I knew it could be done,” he said. “Why couldn’t I see the way when I was alive? Why was I so blind, so hampered?”

  Marianne said nothing. She wondered if he might eventually reach the conclusions she had offered him earlier.

  “Perhaps you were right,” he said at last. “Perhaps the humans we drew into our service have betrayed us by enslaving us in the very flesh we chartered.”

  “Something like that,” she said.

  He stared at her with three unwavering eyes.

  “I will have to reconsider, these things,” he remarked. “Yes . . . this changes everything.”

  The three eyes faded away, lost in contemplation, solemn. In their place, briefly, Tsering appeared. He tried to speak but was breathless with laughter. At last he gave up and also vanished.

  “Next stop, the Lancangjiang,” said Jetsun. He brought his hand to his mouth and sipped the droplet of fresh amrita. His expression didn’t change, but as he brought the jet into its ascent he looked like someone else—someone more perfectly Jetsun Dorje than the man she knew. He looked like the essential Jetsun, a character who would be painted for ages on sacred scrolls and preserved in holographic shrines until his actuality had blurred into legend and he emerged as a figure of even greater stature. Staring at him, she felt sure that he was becoming a myth.

  Then he turned and looked deep into her eyes, and she knew he could see the same thing happening to her.

  15. The Powerplant of Nothingness

  It was almost noon when they followed the river out of the forest and saw the monastery climbing the steep side of the rocky valley below. They had glimpsed it briefly from the jet as the sky was paling with dawn, but at that time had dared not approach. Instead they had streaked past and found a meadow higher in the mountains, where they landed the jet and pushed it as far as possible into the shadows of a pine forest. Hours had passed as they clambered downstream over icy rocks, and it would take even longer to make their way back to the landing spot once they had retrieved the vajra. But they had little choice. They could hardly drop straight into the powerplant compound.

  The compound itself lay past the monastery, where the river valley broadened out toward the plains. The massive central dome was painted in rings of color, surmounted by a delicate golden antenna. It was much larger than she had expected from the projections she’d seen in the lotus, and in fact the decorations surprised her. She could have sworn that in the three-eyed man’s memory, the dome had been gray as the stone slopes around it. Now the huge chorten looked like a shrine greater than the grandest of them all, Bodhnath, in the Kathmandu valley of Nepal. It was difficult to be certain at this distance but she thought she could see filaments of wire running down to the earth from the golden spire, along with coppery leaves that fluttered on the lines like metallic prayer flags.

  Beyond the compound was a gathering of large white buildings, home to the three-eyed overseers. A bridge spanned the water between the monastery and the chorten, but traffic was light on the road that ran along the banks. The monastery itself was lightly guarded, for it contained nothing of importance; still, they could hardly stroll up to it in broad daylight. It looked much like the ancient monasteries of Tibet, a myriad of tiny whitewashed boxes stacked precariously on the rock face in ramshackle tiers like the steps of a crumbling staircase.

  Sitting in the shadows at the edge of the forest, they ate the lunch they’d brought from the jet and waited for night to fall. Marianne dozed, waking occasionally to find Jetsun studying the dome or whispering to the lotus. The flower had closed up into a bud again, permitting him to slip it into his pocket when necessary. By late afternoon she was anxious to get moving, but there was nothing to do except wait a bit longer.

  The valley finally filled with violet shadows; the stars came out and then vanished in a tattered blanket of clouds. She prayed it would not snow. Throughout the monastery a hundred little windows glowed with golden light, giving them a clear sight of their destination if not their best route.

  Jetsun had suggested that they climb toward the crest of the valley wall then descend on the monastery, but in the dark it was difficult going. They picked their way over teetering slabs of stone, occasionally disturbing the fragile balance of the cliffs and causing small avalanches. Marianne feared that at any moment they would cause a greater cataclysm, creating enough noise to draw them to the attention of whatever guards patrolled the monastery. On this latter point the three-eyed man had proved quite unhelpful, never having visited the monks’ place. They might well have been under surveillance the whole time, but if this were the case, no obvious move was made to apprehend them.

  At last they clambered over a wall onto a dark path and found themselves standing before a row of houses. Any number of doors awaited their knock.

  Marianne stepped softly to a window and peered through a gap in the curtains.

  The room beyond was quite small, no more than a cell, and lit by a lamp with a golden light. The walls were covered with paintings and tiny images which she presumed were of a religious nature until she looked at them more closely. While religious in approach and traditional in technique, the paintings pictured not divinities but devices. What looked like a wheel of life, with the six realms of existence confined between the spokes, proved to be an extravagant rendering of some chemical chain. A mandala painted in red, white, yellow, and green, with the surroundings of charnel grounds and fierce guardians, turned out to be a rendition of circuitry in which every transformer and capacitor was guarded by a brightly colored daka or dakini; and at the center of the light maze was an ornate vajra done in glimmering gold leaf.

  Then there were the tiny icons arranged here and there about the room, most of them cluttering the tiers of an altar upon which a golden lamp glowed steadily. They were not religious figurines but electronic components: computer chips, circuit boards, and antique vacuum tubes.

  A shadow moved across the window, obscuring her view. She saw the back of a fi
gure wrapped in claret and saffron robes whose black hair was cropped short. The figure sank down before the altar and began a repetitive, rhythmic chant that penetrated the glass and held Marianne as if hypnotized.

  On the altar, in time with the syllables, the golden lamp began to flicker. It never went completely dark, though it grew so dim that at times she could see nothing of the room. Nor could she escape the impression that the light was responding solely to the chanted sounds.

  “Look, Marianne!” whispered Jetsun.

  She drew away from the window, wondering what he had seen. To her surprise, she found that every window along the row was blinking like the one she’d been watching. The lights did not quite strobe in unison; from the muted sound of chanting all around them, she guessed that each lamp responded to the voice of one monk.

  Then, with no sense of transition, all the lights began to flash in perfect synchronicity. The monks throughout the area were now chanting in unison.

  A higher note joined the other voices. Pink light began to beat against the dark wall where they stood. Marianne looked down and saw the radiance pouring through the fabric of Jetsun’s pocket.

  He drew the lotus into the open with anxious fingers, as if afraid that it had betrayed them. Its song was growing louder, drowning out the low voices of the monks, spreading through the monastery. He held it out to her.

  “Do something!” he said.

  “What?”

  The song grew steadier and ceased to fluctuate; in time the light from the houses also shone steadily. The monks had fallen silent now. She could sense their growing curiosity.

  All along the row, doors flew open and shadows leaned out to bathe in the pink light of the lotus. She saw men and women, monks and nuns, all with their hair cut short, all staring in amazement at the flower.

  Suddenly the lotus fell silent.

  A babble of excited voices filled the night.

  “They’ve come!” someone cried.

  Jetsun drew Marianne backward. She realized that he thought flight might be necessary, but she felt no fear. The lotus assured her that they were safe. The golden altar lights affected her like a declaration of friendship.

  Several figures stepped toward them, palms together, tongues extended. They bowed rapidly several times. “Welcome! Welcome!”

  “Do you know who we are?” she asked.

  A little nun said, “We had word of you. All day we thought you were near. We hoped you would have the courage to approach.”

  “How did you know about us?” Jetsun asked nervously.

  “The vajra felt your presence. Can you not see how it glows tonight with rejoicing? Its light has never been so bright.”

  Marianne said, “You mean those lamps are powered by the vajra?”

  “Certainly,” said the nun.

  “We can’t keep them standing here all night,” a monk said breathlessly. “Bring them to the cathedral. And we must have food for our guests.”

  The nun led them down a narrow street; the others closed in behind.

  “I had been led to understand that the project was a failure so far,” Marianne said.

  “We have not had the successes our supervisors desire. They have yet to find a way to use the power for evil. The vajra leads them into areas that promise malignant rewards but prove to be unexpectedly beneficial. So we keep them guessing while we play at being witless slaves, with no ulterior motives. In the meantime, we keep the vajra safe. Not that it can be harmed. It is indestructible, after all—-as indestructible as the mirrorlike wisdom of enlightenment.”

  Ahead of them, golden light poured from a wide doorway atop a short flight of stairs. They climbed the stairs and entered a long, low-ceilinged building where tubular banners of bright fabric hung like soft pillars throughout the room. Rows of rugs and cushions ran toward a shrine at the far end of the cathedral; and upon this altar sat a shining golden cube: a holovision tank.

  Marianne felt the lotus unfolding in her hands. As the inner petals were revealed, she saw that they were wet with nectar, glistening. She advanced to the shrine, holding the blossom out before her, drawn like a dowser to a spring.

  Shapes flickered inside the tank, forming briefly then wisping away The lotus gave a high shriek that rose into inaudibility. The air above the blossom produced a pocket of mist like a tiny opaline raincloud that showered nectar on her hands. Amrita ran down her arms as she lifted the lotus to the altar.

  Inside the holovision tank, the golden light condensed into the shape of a vajra.

  The tips of the petals tapped against the edge of the tank. She could bring the lotus no closer.

  The radiance subsided gradually, pink and gold merging, kissing, swirling back into themselves. She felt an enveloping sadness but it was not without hope. Only a matter of several hundred meters separated the actual ornaments.

  The nun touched her shoulder lightly. “They long for each other. We must unite them. In the morning, I shall carry the lotus down to the powerplant.”

  Marianne clutched the flower close to her. “No one else may touch the lotus. I am its guardian.”

  “But you may not enter the chorten of power,” said the nun, acting mystified and somewhat offended. “Do not fear. We will take excellent care of the lotus. Have we not been entrusted with the keeping of the vajra?”

  “You don’t understand,” said Marianne. “Chenrezi himself sent us to recover his ornaments. If anything were to happen to the lotus, it could mean grave danger for all Tibet.”

  The woman looked as if she had been struck. Marianne glanced around at the other monks. They did not look very peaceful despite their garments; they had begun to resemble wrathful protectors. Realizing that Jetsun was still near the door, she began to move away from the altar, closing the distance between them.

  The nun said, “Do you mean you intend to remove the vajra from our care?”

  Marianne thought it best that she withhold her reply.

  “This cannot be,” said a monk. “We are the keepers. We alone control the sacred power. The three-eyes themselves know that without our help the vajra would be worthless.”

  “The lotus is ours,” said someone else, snatching at her sleeve as she whirled into the crowd. “It came to us.”

  “Jetsun!” she cried.

  “We will take the flower into the chorten. It belongs at the western gate of the mandala. We will protect it through the ages.”

  “Marianne!” called Jetsun. He burst through the crowd and grabbed the lotus from her hands; it was closing up now, albeit reluctantly. As he touched it, an image formed in the air above the petals. The glowing head of the three-eyed man glared out at the assembly.

  The angry monks caught sight of the projection and stopped in their places, shocked by the image of their accustomed master.

  “Stand back!” he declared. “I shall report you.”

  “Spies,” someone hissed. “They’re spies. We’ve been betrayed!”

  “You are the traitors,” said the three-eyed man, “usurping the power of the gods for your own designs.”

  Marianne regarded the floating head with amazement. It occurred to her that this was no longer the soul of the man who had died in Golmud Labs. This was the lotus itself, taking on a singularly useful form.

  “You will make no move against my emissaries,” said the image. “You will safely conduct them to the chorten and prepare the vajra for immediate inspection.”

  The monks looked quickly back and forth at one another. The little nun reappeared at the edge of the crowd, looking pale but fierce with anger.

  “We are not afraid of you,” she told the three-eyed man. “We can kill you and your spies, and no one will be the wiser.”

  “That is quite untrue. I am in constant communication with my peers. We have suspected subversion at this project for some time; now it is confirmed. Even your so-called masters have become untrustworthy. You will comply fully with my instructions or else risk penalties far graver than those y
ou already face.”

  “If you truly respect the vajra,” Marianne said, “then ask its will in this matter. We must all work in harmony, mustn’t we?”

  Several monks and nuns turned to the golden holo-tank and began to chant, imploring the vajra’s guidance. At last they turned back to the rest of the crowd, resignation written plain on their faces.

  “We must bring them into the chorten,” said the little nun, making no attempt to hide the anger in her voice. “It is the vajra’s will.”

  * * *

  Marianne and Jetsun donned traditional robes for their visit to the plant. As they dressed, Jetsun said, “Why don’t you tell them who you are?”

  “The Gyayum Chenmo, you mean? I don’t think it would help, even if they believed me. No, our three-eyed friend has given us a key and I think we’d better use it.”

  He nodded. “They don’t trust us, though. I’m afraid they’ll try some deception.”

  She patted the lotus bud which sang warmly in her pocket, anticipating reunion with the vajra. “I think we’ll be all right.”

  They stepped out into the starlight. A freezing wind rushed through the valley, whistling over the rooftops. Most of the dwellers in the monastery had returned to their homes. Three men and three women waited to bring them to the project. Among them was the little nun.

  “We must go quickly,” she said. “It is nearly time to take the midnight shift.”

  They hurried to the lower end of the monastery and came out on the road that ran alongside the river. As they crossed the bridge, Marianne looked down on the water rushing white as ice below; she could not help but wonder if their escort wished to throw them into the torrent and have done with it. But they crossed the span without mishap and soon came to the gates of the project.

  The chorten loomed against the night sky, lit by a few golden spotlights that picked out the gleam of the tall metal antenna and danced on the flickering metal flags strung through space. The spire was capped with a crescent moon enclosing a solar disk. The floodlights showed a pair of enormous elegant eyes painted near the top of the dome. The serene gaze had a calming effect on Marianne. She felt as if Chenrezi himself were near, offering reassurance.