4
Karma [Sanskrit]: The consequences of one’s previous actions.
RAMOS got surgical glue from the first-aid kit and carefully closed my wound. As she worked, I tried to guess what she was doing here. By “here,” I didn’t mean the top of the ziggurat—if Festina Ramos had been anywhere on Cashleen, she’d hurry to Zoonau as soon as she heard of the Balrog’s attack. She would then search the city for the point of maximum chaos and inevitably find her way to Tut’s pulpit. Lieutenant Admiral Festina Ramos was the navy’s official troubleshooter-at-large. Her job and her instincts would have brought her unfailingly to the heart of the furor.
But what was she doing on Cashleen at all? What was important enough to bring her when she could have been the darling of New Earth?
Two years earlier, she’d driven the navy’s High Council of Admirals into meltdown by presenting evidence of their massive corruption and wrongdoing. Felony charges against council members still had to work through the courts, but that was just a formality. The important trial had been held in the news media, and the verdict was unequivocal: guilty as charged.
The entire High Council had resigned in disgrace. Even rank-and-file admirals who weren’t on the council fell prey to suspicion…except, of course, Ramos herself. She became so popular, newswires willingly printed her picture—usually with the birthmark lightened to soft mauve, but sometimes (when an article wanted to depict her as an implacable force for justice) with the birthmark left dark and foreboding.
Ramos had dominated the news for a month. During that time, she met with almost every politician on New Earth, plus many more who flew in from other planets just to grab a photo op. Those of us at the Explorer Academy believed that Ramos would be named president of the new High Council; she was the only admiral who still held the public’s confidence. Rumor said the civilian government wanted to announce a complete slate of High Admirals all at once, and needed time to make sure none of the new appointees had been involved in the old council’s crimes…but as soon as the background checks were complete, Festina Ramos would surely become the navy’s admiral-in-chief.
Then Ramos disappeared. No word where she was going—just a brief interview with a third-string reporter who happened to be hanging around New Earth’s main spaceport. Ramos said duty called her elsewhere, and she might not be back for some time. “Best wishes to the new High Council, may they serve with honor, I trust they’ll receive everyone’s full support, gotta go now, bye.” Or words to that effect.
With that, Festina Ramos swept off the public stage like a tired ballerina who wants to get away before someone calls, “Encore!”
Navy gossip occasionally reported Ramos sightings around the galaxy—a day on Troyen with Queen Innocence…four days on Celestia with Lord Protector York and his Mandasar wife…three weeks in seclusion on Demoth with some junior proctor of the Vigil…rumors of surprise visits to archaeological digs, disease research centers, and the YouthBoost vats on Sitz—but Ramos avoided the media, never gave public statements, and kept on the move. By the time word leaked out where she’d been, she was already someplace else.
Her behavior provoked countless theories. For example, some suggested that during her investigations into the High Council, she’d discovered something she hadn’t made public: a threat much worse than the crimes she’d revealed, and now she was racing from planet to planet, trying to end the danger before disaster struck. A number of my fellow Explorers, however, were sure she was the victim of “pretty people politics”—the top echelons of the Technocracy couldn’t stomach a disfigured purple-cheeked woman taking command of the fleet, so they sent her on meaningless errands to remove her from the spotlight. Personally, I wondered if she’d just got fed up with the politicians, the media, and all the other talk-talk-talk. If she’d really been offered the highest post in the navy, she might have turned it down as more trouble than it was worth. Then she’d happily fled the public eye and was now on extended vacation, going wherever she liked…perhaps helping out here and there, but certainly not battling galactic-scale dangers.
Still, I’d known better than to mention my suspicions to other Academy cadets. They’d worshiped Ramos as a hero. She’d been an Explorer herself before the Admiralty abruptly bumped her (at age twenty-six) to lieutenant admiral and made her the navy’s problem-solver-without-portfolio. Nobody knew how she’d won such a promotion, though everyone suspected she’d caught the High Council in some mischief and blackmailed them into making concessions. Certainly, Ramos’s first official act was to conduct a “policy review” of the Explorer Corps, leading to an overhaul of corps operations and substantial improvements in the treatment of Explorers by other branches of the service. That alone would have made her popular among us “expendable crew members”…but more important, she carried out her highly visible activities while still looking like an Explorer. As an admiral, Ramos could easily have obtained treatment to remove her florid birthmark; but she’d stayed the way she was, no matter how much it disconcerted “normal” people.
Was it any wonder Explorers loved her?
I’d admired her as much as anyone else had. But now, as she checked that my wound was closed, I felt a dawning resentment. Ramos’s history proved she was surrounded by extraordinary karma—which is not some mystical force but the everyday processes whereby seeds sown in the past bear fruit in the present. Karma simply means that the choices you made yesterday affect the options you have today. It’s common sense. Nothing is inevitable or predetermined…yet your actions and the actions of others can sometimes produce a cumulative momentum almost impossible to resist. That’s what karma is: the momentum of cause and effect that drives you forward, occasionally into bottlenecks or booby traps.
Some people have more momentum than others. Some are riding an avalanche. Festina Ramos was clearly one of those avalanche riders; her karma would sweep her from crisis to crisis until her luck or momentum ran out.
And people like me would be caught in the avalanche too.
Here’s what I was thinking as I lay paralyzed, watching Ramos repack the first-aid kit. Why would the Balrog care about an Ugly Screaming Stink-Girl? It wouldn’t. It would care about a high-ranking avalanche rider like Festina Ramos; she could be useful in the Balrog’s plans, whatever they were. And if those plans required a pawn to serve as host for fuzzy red spores, the Balrog would find great amusement in choosing a host who looked like the admiral’s dark twin.
In other words, I’d been picked because my appearance would get a rise out of Festina Ramos.
She and I were almost the same height. We were both strong, lean, and athletic. Her hair was cut much like mine: short and uncomplicated. Our faces weren’t similar if you compared individual features—her green eyes, my brown, her finely cut nose, mine wider and flatter—but anyone looking at Ramos and me would ignore such minor differences. Observers would be transfixed by our disfigured cheeks. Nothing else would matter.
Even Ramos couldn’t help staring. She checked that Tut was sleeping peacefully and shooed away some curious Cashlings by brandishing her pistol; then she came back and knelt by my side. For almost a minute, she did nothing but gaze at my face. If I’d been able to move, I would have told her to stop. It reminded me too much of my mother, who’d gaze at my cheek in sickened fascination when she thought I wouldn’t notice. But at least there was no disgust in Ramos’s expression—I was used to stares of disgust, and the admiral’s eyes were blessedly free of such condemnation. Free of pity too. Whatever Ramos was thinking, she hid it well.
In time, she turned away from my face. That’s when she saw the blood pricks on my feet. “Oh fuck,” she said—not angrily, just a whisper. “Are those Balrog bites? Is that why your partner went after you with the knife?”
“Yes.”
When the word came out of my mouth, I was just as surprised as Ramos. For a terrifying moment, I thought I was still paralyzed, and the Balrog was speaking through me as if I were a ventriloquist’s dummy. But somehow I’d regained control of my muscles, with none of the staggering nausea that usually follows a stunner blast. I sat up…spent a moment straightening my chemise, until I was flooded with embarrassment by my ridiculous attempt at modesty…then scrambled to my knees in front of the kneeling Ramos and saluted. “Explorer Third Class Ma Youn Suu, Admiral.”
We were almost nose to nose…like little girls kneeling together, getting ready to play some game. Ramos swallowed hard and edged away. She didn’t return my salute. “You, uhh, you did get bitten, didn’t you? That’s why you got shot by…uhh…”
“He calls himself Tut”
“Appropriate name. Anyway, if you can shrug off a stun-charge that quickly, you’re…”
“Infested. Yes, Admiral.”
She looked at me. The uneasiness on her face slowly softened. “How do you feel?”
“I don’t feel different, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“That’s not what I’m asking. How do you feel?”
I looked at her. She was an admiral, yes, but only a few years older than I. Not like a prying mother—just a concerned big sister. Or a friend. “I feel…I don’t know…”
That was the moment it caught up with me. Everything. Not just being in my underwear at the top of a pyramid in the center of an alien city, with two bite marks on my feet and extraterrestrial parasites in my blood. Not just the prospect of becoming like Kaisho Namida, a cripple in a wheelchair, solid moss from the waist down, and a brain so overrun with spores that she spoke of the Balrog like a lover. Not just the realization that I would be changed against my will and could never again trust my own body, thoughts, emotions, perceptions, or desires.
What caught up with me was my life. The whole of it. The isolation of a childhood as Ugly Screaming Stink-Girl. The unfairness of being forced into the Explorer Corps. The loneliness of months on a starship with nothing but a lunatic partner, a collection of amateurish figurines, and a crew of thirty-five people who couldn’t look me in the face but constantly stole sidelong glances.
I should have been somebody else. Not an Explorer, not a virgin, not an alien parasite’s host. I was only nineteen. I should have had a future; I should have had a past; but I had neither.
So I sank to the ground and wept. In anger, sorrow, fear, regret, grief, self-pity, and loneliness.
After a while, I felt Festina Ramos gentiy stroking my hair. Some time later, she was holding me as I sobbed against her shirt. But when I’d cried myself out, she eased away. She put a handkerchief in my hand; then she stood up and turned her back while I wiped my eyes, blew my nose, mopped my cheek.
I was left holding the handkerchief, wondering if I should give it back to her. It was damp and filthy…but at least my cheek hadn’t bled the way it often did when I fell to pieces.
“I’m sorry, Admiral,” I mumbled.
“Call me Festina,” she said. “I’m sick of formality…especially with fellow Explorers.”
I didn’t answer. I could easily get past the military convention of addressing people by rank…but I squirmed at the Western rudeness of using no tides at all. Why couldn’t I call her Daw Festina? Or if our shared background as Explorers made us “sisters in arms,” I could bring myself to call her Ma Festina. But just a plain unadorned Festina? It was like spitting in her face. Still, there was no point explaining proper etiquette to Caucasians. Even if they decided to respect my good manners, they always put an ironic tone in their voices as if they were humoring a simpleton.
I would just have to get used to calling her by name alone. Festina. At least it was pronounceable, unlike many Western names.
“So that’s over,” Admiral Ramos—Festina—said in a light voice. “Now we set emotion aside and get busy.”
“Busy doing what?”
“Immediate practical things. When life goes to shit, do immediate practical things. Like head for a starbase hospital.”
“They won’t be able to help me.”
She gazed down at me with her piercing green eyes. “You’re right. But it doesn’t matter, because I doubt we’ll reach the hospital. You know why?”
I nodded. “Something will come up. The Balrog intends to use you somehow, and I’ll have to come for the ride. I’m the carrying case for the spores.”
Ramos…Festina…winced. “Yes. Sorry about that.”
I shrugged. “If I really am just a carrying case, maybe when this is all over, the Balrog will let me go.”
She gave me a look. “Do you really believe that?”
“No. But they still haven’t answered die Alvarez question.”
Festina allowed herself a little smile. The Alvarez question had arisen at the Explorer Academy decades ago, first asked by a professor named Ricardo Alvarez. The question was this: Which is more deadly? Despair or false hope? When, for example, you’re possessed by alien spores, is it worse to give up immediately or to let yourself hope some miracle will save you? Both options were undesirable—or, as the Buddha would say, “unskillful.” Alvarez had wanted some student to resolve the question through statistical research…but generations of Explorers had preferred to let the question go unanswered. Instead, they used it as a private shorthand for I’m not dead yet; let’s leave it at that.
“When I was at the Academy,” Festina said, “the Alvarez question did have an answer.”
“It still does.” We recited in unison, “Fuck off, Ricardo!”
The way past despair and false hope is just letting go. It doesn’t improve your odds of survival, but it doesn’t waste mental energy.
Festina grinned. I grinned. Our comm implants buzzed in unison, and we both stopped grinning immediately.
“Ready?” Festina asked.
I nodded. “Immortality awaits.” Those were the last words an Explorer traditionally spoke before embarking on a mission. No one took the phrase seriously; but if you died, IMMORTALITY AWAITS almost always looked better on a memorial plaque than your real last words…which were far too often “Oh shit.” (“Going Oh Shit” was an Explorer euphemism for death.)
Our comm implants buzzed again—a general hail on the standard Explorer Corps channel. Festina said, “I’ll take it,” and clicked her comm to answer.
I didn’t hear much of the conversation. Festina had an old-style Explorer comm—the kind that was embedded in her throat with the audio feed snaking up under the skin to her jaw and making her whole skull resonate. It gave her a noticeable lump on the neck…which I thought would be uncomfortable, though I didn’t know for sure. Thanks to Festina’s changes in the Explorer Corps, my own comm unit was much less intrusive: subcutaneous audio wires in the pinna of each ear; a primary voice pickup that replaced the roof of my mouth; and a secondary subcutaneous pickup running the length of my sternum. (The secondary pickup could be activated remotely. If I ever got knocked out, Pistachio could turn on my chest mike from orbit and track me down by the sound of my heartbeat.)
The new systems were more reliable and practically unnoticeable once you got used to a slight taste of plastic in your soft palate. Festina, however, had never upgraded. Most old Explorers hadn’t—diehard holdouts. I activated my comm with my tongue to see if I could pick up the admiral’s conversation…but as soon as I did, my ears were blasted with a mechanical voice. “Explorer Youn Suu, come in. Explorer Youn Suu, come in. Explorer Youn Suu, come in…”
Pistachio’s ship-soul on autorepeat. I stepped away from Festina and tongue-switched to transmit. “Youn Suu here,” I said. “Go ahead.”
There was a pause while the computer notified my caller that I’d finally responded. Five seconds later, Captain Cohen came on. “Glad you’re there, Youn Suu. We were worried. Tut’s suit sent a signal it was executing an emergency evac, then your suit sent an autodistress call half a second before going no-comm. Everything all right?”
“No, sir. But we don’t need assistance.”
“You’re sure? I could contact the Cashling authorities…”
“They’d just get in the way. We can handle—”
Ambassador Li broke in. “Explorer, where the hell are you? Ubatu and I are ready to go.”
“There’ve been some complications, Ambassador.”
“What complications? I told that damned Balrog to leave, and it did. Just goes to show, aliens may act cocky, but they’ll knuckle under if you take a hard line. That’s what diplomacy is. Now I intend to use the same approach on the Cashling government—fly straight to their capital, point out how I saved their city, and demand some juicy trade concessions. If you aren’t back to my shuttle in five minutes, you’re on your own.”
“You might as well leave now, Ambassador. I don’t know where Admiral Ramos and I will go next, but it probably won’t fit your schedule.”
A silence. “Admiral Ramos? Admiral Festina Ramos?”
“Yes, Ambassador.”
“She’s here?”
“Right in front of me. She’s taking a call that will probably lead to work for both of us.”
“You and Festina Ramos?”
“Yes, Ambassador.”
I could guess what Li was thinking. With Festina on the scene, no one would believe Li and Ubatu had any part in expelling the moss from Zoonau. People would assume Festina had been responsible…though, strange to say, it was actually Tut who’d done the most to make the spores leave.
But if Li had no chance of taking credit for the Balrog’s departure, he could still boost his prestige by being seen with the admiral. Any photo op, any joint appearance in front of witnesses, and Li could capitalize on it for months. (“When Admiral Ramos and I were together on Cashleen…I happen to know Admiral Ramos believes…my good friend Festina wants me to say…”)
So I wasn’t surprised when Li told me, “We aren’t in that much of a hurry, Explorer. If I or my shuttle can provide any assistance…”
I looked toward Festina. She was still talking, facing away from me. “Ambassador,” I said, “Admiral Ramos can’t be disturbed right now, but we might need a ride very soon. Probably back to Pistachio. Could you come and get us? We’re on top of the central ziggurat. I don’t know the nearest shuttle pad, but Zoonau’s air traffic control can tell you where to land.”
“To hell with air traffic control,” Li said. “I’ll pick you up where you are. Five minutes.”
I winced as he cut the transmission. Thirty rope walkways ran at various levels over my head. I doubted Li had the piloting skill to weave his way through all the cat’s cradles…and if he broke even a single rope, the Cashling government would howl themselves hoarse over “thoughtless human hooligans” laying waste to “irreplaceable urban transitways.”
On the other hand, if Li wanted to create a diplomatic incident, that was his problem. Maybe he liked diplomatic incidents. They were his form of job security.
Festina continued to talk on her comm. I kept my distance so she wouldn’t think I was eavesdropping. Once she turned in my direction and asked, “I assume you’re here with a ship?”
“Yes, admiral. A Model D frigate named Pistachio.”
“No Class One duties?”
“We’re strictly Class Five.”
“Not anymore.”
She turned back to her conversation while I pondered her words. Class One duties were “crucial to the survival of the Technocracy and the Outward Fleet”—which generally meant missions required to placate the League of Peoples. A ship with Class One duties was sacrosanct; nobody could interfere with it until it finished its mission. Furthermore, Class One duties were so vital that the crew had to be informed of exactly what was going on. Less important missions might operate on a need-to-know basis; but with Class One, nobody was kept in the dark for fear that ignorance would lead to mistakes. I was therefore certain we had no Class One jobs in the offing…unless Festina was about to give us one.
Any admiral could commandeer navy ships to carry out Class One jobs at any time…after which, only the High Council could reverse the decision. Since the High Council wouldn’t dare overrule the illustrious Festina Ramos, she’d have free rein to make Pistachio her own. (Most admirals commanded flagships already, but not Festina; she’d lost hers to a saboteur some years earlier and had never asked for a replacement. According to rumor, she preferred to travel incognito on civilian vessels—usually ones operated by aliens, who were less apt to recognize her famous face.)
Therefore, it came as no surprise when she waved me to her side a few minutes later. “Call your captain, please. Say I’m invoking my Powers of Emergency and making your ship my flag. Class One mission. Verify authorization through Starbase Trillium. Prepare to leave orbit as soon as we’re on board.”
“What destination, Admiral?”
“A planet called Muta.”
I’d never heard of it. She gave me a set of coordinates. Only fifteen light-years from Cashleen, but in an unexpected direction. “Isn’t that Greenstrider territory?” I asked.
“Used to be. The Greenstriders sold it to the Unity.”
I stared at her. “The Greenstriders sold it?” Greenstriders were aliens with extreme territorial instincts—extreme to the point of lunacy. Once Greenstriders took mates, all they wanted was to claim a chunk of property and live there the rest of their lives. They wouldn’t travel…not even to move to bigger, more prosperous holdings. Greenstriders bonded with their land for better or worse, and never willingly left their homesteads more than a few hours at a time. I said, “Greenstriders wouldn’t sell a square millimeter of ground to their own grandmothers. They’d never sell an entire planet to outsiders. Unless the place is utterly uninhabitable…”
“No,” Festina said, “Muta is apparently superb—9.7 on the Habitability Index. Perfect for colonization. Nevertheless, the Greenstriders sold it to the Unity ten years ago.”
“And now?”
“Now the Unity has small settlements there. One of which just sent a distress call.”
“What kind of distress call?”
“A nonspecific SOS. Someone just pressed a mayday button, and now isn’t answering the comm.”
“So let me guess,” I said. “The Unity tried to call everyone else on Muta to see if anybody knew the reason for the Mayday. None of the other settlers responded.”
“Exactly. Muta’s gone completely silent. We have to find out why…and try to save any survivors.”
“Why us?” I asked. “Doesn’t the Unity have ships in the area?”
“No. The Unity only has a dozen ships in their entire fleet—huge damned things called luna-ships because they’re the size of small moons. Mostly, the lunas keep to the core of Unity space, making short trips between well-populated planets. Muta’s a long way off from other Unity holdings—and it only has a few thousand colonists, so it’s not worth visiting often. A luna-ship drops by two or three times a year. The rest of the time, Muta is on its own.”
“What about the Greenstriders? Even if they sold the planet, it’s still near their territory. Don’t they have ships within a few light-years?”
Festina shook her head. “From what we can tell, the Greenstriders give Muta’s system a wide berth…although they do have a number of unmanned observation posts nearby.”
I rolled my eyes. “That says a lot, doesn’t it?”
Festina nodded but didn’t speak…like a professor at the Academy, waiting for me to explain, though she already knew what I meant.
“There’s something bad on Muta,” I said. “Bad enough to scare off the Greenstriders. Or more likely, the bad thing killed every Greenstrider colonist, since I can’t imagine Greenstriders leaving their land, no matter how frightened they got. The Greenstrider government wrote off Muta as too dangerous for further settlement, so they sold the planet to the Unity. Even then, the Greenstriders didn’t want to turn their backs on whatever had killed their people…so they built unmanned observation posts as an early-warning system in case the bad thing on Muta started to spread.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Festina said. “And the Unity?”
“Full of themselves, as usual. They only colonize high-quality planets, which are never easy to come by. So they bought Muta, even though they must have known the Greenstriders had run into trouble. The Unity is famous for believing it can succeed where others have failed. They founded some settlements on Muta, probably filled with elite survey teams on the lookout for danger…but obviously they weren’t as good as they thought.”
“That’s the way I see it too,” Festina agreed. “Lucky for us, we don’t have to live on Muta. Just go in, rescue survivors, and get out.”
I looked at her. “It won’t be that easy.”
She sighed. “I know. All this”—she waved her hand at the city around us—”the Balrog did this for a reason. It had advance knowledge that we’d be called to Muta, and it decided to come along.”
“Inside me.”
“Inside you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” Festina said. “Do you think the damned moss confides in me?” Her face remained hard for a moment, then softened. “Look. I won’t say the Balrog is benevolent. It has its own agenda and gleefully manipulates people to achieve its ends. But at least the Balrog is sentient. It respects sentient life. And if there’s something on Muta that’s been killing setders, the Balrog can’t be on the killer’s side. If anything, the Balrog might intend to eliminate the killer. Maybe the Balrog will score points with the League if it makes Muta safe.”
“So why make the trip inside me?” I asked. “If the Balrog wants to play hero, why not teleport to Muta on its own? It could smother the killer with spores, the way it smothered Zoonau.”
“Maybe the Balrog wouldn’t win a direct confrontation. Maybe it needs to land on Muta incognito.”
“And I’m the Trojan horse?”
“That’s not necessarily…” But her words were drowned out by a thunderous crash over our heads. Li’s shuttle had arrived.
The rope walkways of Zoonau had lasted for millennia.
Like chintah concrete, they weren’t nearly as simple as they looked—each rope was an amalgam of artificial fibers and microbes that could heal any fraying or decay. They could not, however, heal outright breakage…like the snapping and slicing caused by a several-ton shuttle coming straight down from the top of the dome.
The ropes weren’t the only casualties. They were tied to numerous supports: to buildings, to stanchions, to the dome itself. If a rope happened to be stronger than its end attachments, the attachments gave way first. Screw bolts got wrenched from the walls of skyscrapers, spilling chunks of chintah into the streets below. Pylons buckled and bent, or broke clean off and plunged earthward like spears. The glass of the dome resonated with pops and bangs and clatter. Occasionally, some cat’s cradle proved strong enough to hold the shuttle’s weight, at least temporarily; but Li just applied more downthrust, pressing the craft into the web of ropes until they collapsed under the strain. Panicked Cashlings ran for cover, while the more courageous (or foolhardy) called the newswires again. Dust and debris showered around us as rope ends whizzed past at high speed, slashing like bull-whips. Festina threw herself on top of Tut to protect him. I could only flatten facedown on the roof and hope I didn’t get slammed by some jagged piece of concrete.
My eyes were closed against flying dust. I covered my ears with my hands to block the roar of the shuttle’s engines. Wind buffeted around me. Yet I was still aware of exactly where the shuttle was. Not through vision, hearing, or the feel of disturbance in the air, but through sheer mental comprehension.
I just knew the shuttle’s position. Knew too where everything else was: Festina, Tut, nearby Cashlings, falling chintah. I didn’t sense these things through the chaos. I just knew.
And I knew more about those people and things than just their position. I could sense…I had no simple word for what I was perceiving, but it seemed like some kind of life force. An aura. I sensed the ordered, monastic community of plants and microbes inside the chintah. The chaotic labyrinth of Tut’s madness. The watery shallowness of the Cashlings. The avalanche karma of Festina Ramos, distorting the space around her like a black hole, so that the woman herself was almost invisible within.
I could sense the Balrog’s life force too. Inside me. The alien was filled with a powerful karma like Festina Ramos…but not an avalanche, not a black hole. A peaceful placid presence, undemanding, unyielding, neither hot nor cold, neither light nor dark, just there: inhabiting every part of my body like a calm and calming mist.
Or so it seemed…if I could trust this revelation. This sixth sense.
My people have long believed there are six senses: the usual five recognized by Westerners, plus the Faculty of Mind. Whenever I had to explain this concept to non-Buddhists, I’d mumble about the Mind’s “ability to extract meaning from raw perception.” Putting things together. Making logical deductions. The Mind didn’t gather input per se, but processed input from the other senses and was therefore part of the sensory system. Yes, it was a sixth sense…sort of.
But suppose—at least for higher beings—the Mind really was a sense organ. Suppose it didn’t just process input, but could somehow accumulate input on its own. Unmediated perception. Could that have been why the ancients classified Mind as a sixth sense? And we moderns had invented weak arguments to explain away the old beliefs rather than admitting our blindness.
But now I could sense the world. I knew everything’s place and its nature. I also knew how I’d acquired this new mode of perception.
“Balrog,” I said under my breath. “Please stop.”
The radarlike awareness vanished immediately…leaving me with nothing but dust, wind, and an emptiness where the comprehension had been. The emptiness wasn’t painful—I didn’t feel blind and bereft, as if some part of me had been gouged away. I felt no craving to have the uncanny perception back. I was just aware of the absence. Like when you cut your hair, and for a while you’re cognizant of what’s missing.
“Is that how you do it?” I whispered to the Balrog. “Is that how you seduced Kaisho? How you think you’ll seduce me? You share a bit of your awareness…and then, like a perfect gentleman, you stop when you’re asked. But you make sure I know the offer is still open. A sixth sense that’s mine anytime I want, and all I have to say is please. Like a kiss hovering a millimeter from my lips—I just have to lean in and take it. Is that how you’ll make me let down my guard?”
No answer. But I remembered the way my Mind’s eye had perceived the Balrog’s life force: calm, peaceful, wise…like a Buddha. Exactly like a Buddha. As if the Balrog had knowingly portrayed itself in the guise I’d find most trustworthy.
Another aspect of the seduction. I was supposed to conceive of the Balrog not as a parasite, but as a saintly creature of pure enlightenment.
“Suppose I were a Christian,” I said to the Balrog. “When I looked at you, would I see Christ? If I were a Hindu, would I see Ganesha? Or Krishna? Or Kali? And when you showed me Festina and Tut, did I really sense their inner selves? Or were you just reflecting what I already knew about them, so I’d believe your mystic sixth sense could reveal hidden truths? Was it all just a trick to tempt me into inviting you back? To get me interested in taking another look?”
Still no answer. I didn’t expect one.
“Never again,” I said. “Don’t do that to me, ever. I don’t believe what your sixth sense shows me, and I definitely don’t need it. Just leave me alone.”
But I knew even then, I wouldn’t hold out forever. Forever was too long not to give in eventually. To take just another tiny peek.
The shuttle settled on the ziggurat’s roof. When I lifted my head, Festina was already standing, dusting chintah off her uniform. She looked down at me. “So. Did you arrange for the shuttle?”
“I said we might need immediate transport. I wanted to meet the shuttle at the nearest landing pad, but it’s being flown by a diplomat who doesn’t think other people’s laws apply to him.”
“Oh,” Festina said. “A dipshit. I know the type.” She sighed. “Who is it? Anyone I should know?”
I reported what I knew about Li and Ubatu. I couldn’t recite their résumés, but I could sketch their personalities. (Inwardly, I wondered: what would their life forces look like?) After I’d finished, Festina asked for more details…and in the ensuing conversation, she invariably abbreviated “diplomats” to “dipshits.” It proved she was an Explorer of the old school. For some reason, they all loved profanity and rough talk. Maybe to shock the more genteel navy personnel around them. I could never swear like that myself—I’d been raised with Bamar manners, which abhor harsh speech—but once I got used to it, Festina’s crudeness made me smile. Weren’t her words just another chant to scare away demons?
As I finished my précis on Li and Ubatu, the shuttle’s access door opened. No one came out, but Li spoke over the shuttle’s loudspeakers. “Admiral Ramos! It’s an honor. Would you care to come aboard?”
Festina turned to me. “Are you ready?”
I looked around the rooftop. Pieces of equipment lay scattered around us, though a lot had blown away in the wind from the shuttle’s descent. “Let’s pick up the pistols and the first-aid kit. Otherwise, the Cashlings might hurt themselves.”
“You do that,” Festina said. “I’ll get your partner.”
I wanted to tell her I’d handle Tut. Being gene-spliced, I assumed I was stronger than she was, even though we were the same size…and a man Tut’s height would be heavy, despite his beanpole frame. But before I could speak, Festina slung Tut over her shoulder in a firefighter’s lift and began waddling with him toward the open hatch. I hurried about gathering the gear we didn’t want to leave behind.
As I collected equipment, I surreptitiously tucked and tugged at my chemise in an effort to cover myself more decently. I didn’t like the thought of Li and Ubatu leering at me on the trip back. However, I needn’t have bothered. By the time I climbed inside, I had the entire passenger cabin to myself…except for the unconscious Tut, slumped in one of the chairs and belted securely with a crash harness. Festina and the diplomats were all in the cockpit, with Li occupying the pilot’s seat, Festina the copilot’s, and Ubatu a pull-out chair blocking the doorway. Ubatu called back over her shoulder, “Stay in the cabin, Explorer. Take care of your partner. Admiral Ramos wants to talk with us up here.”
I had a split second’s glimpse of Festina’s face showing the plaintive look of a woman who definitely didn’t want to talk with ambitious dipshits. Then the cockpit door shut, leaving me on my own.
Li took off at once. I almost lost my balance as the floor shifted beneath me, but I caught hold of a nearby seat and steadied myself. Grappling myself into place next to Tut, I got belted in and checked that he was all right. He’d remain unconscious for at least six hours, but he’d been buckled up snug and safe. All I could do was let him sleep it off.
Which left me at loose ends. Trying not to think. Staring at the bite wounds on my feet—so small they’d heal completely in a day or two. By the time we reached Muta, no one would be able to see where I’d been boarded by fuzzy red hijackers. I’d be the perfect Trojan horse.
But I didn’t want to brood about the spores in my blood. Casting about for other subjects to occupy my mind, it occurred to me that Li had interrupted my last communication with Captain Cohen, long before I’d had a chance to make a full report. I tongued my transmitter, contacted Pistachio’s ship-soul, and was transferred to the captain.
“What’s going on down there?” Cohen asked. “The mayor of Zoonau is up in arms. He wants to arrest the lot of you for wanton destruction and public endangerment. Did something go wrong with the Balrog?”
“No. Ambassador Li got carried away in his haste to meet Admiral Ramos.”
“The Cashlings are furious, Youn Suu. They’ll want someone’s head for this.” Cohen didn’t have to add, Your head goes first—you were the lowest-ranking person on the mission. Everyone in the navy knew that shit flowed downhill.
“Captain,” I said, “a court-martial is the least of my worries.” I gave him a summary of what had happened, including the coordinates for Muta and the admiral’s wish to set sail as soon as we reached Pistachio. Cohen reacted with gratifying horror when he heard I’d been infected with spores…but thirty seconds later, his tone brightened greatly as he learned he had a Class One mission. He raced me through the rest of my story, in a hurry to contact Starbase Trillium for confirmation of the assignment.
I didn’t know why he was excited. For Cohen, the trip to Muta was no different from his usual duties. Pistachio would fly Festina where she needed to go, then wait in orbit till she decided to leave. Maybe there’d be survivors to evacuate, but so what? They were all just passengers. Transporting passengers was routine business for Pistachio.
Why did the captain welcome this trip when it was really the same old thing? Cohen would never set foot on Muta; he’d just watch from the high exosphere and listen to our reports. At most, he’d have the excitement of being a passive witness as we faced whatever had attacked the settlers…
Was that why Cohen sounded so eager? For the chance to observe a life-or-death mission from the safety of his command chair? Or was I simply in such a negative mood, I immediately thought the worst of everyone’s motives?
Time to clear my head of unskillful thoughts.
One good thing about the ambassador’s shuttle: it had remarkably wide seats. Wide enough that I could pull up my legs and assume full lotus while still wearing my seat belt. I setded in, let my breathing go quiet, and forced myself to meditate.
Westerners believe a lot of nonsense about meditation…especially that it’s some kind of trance where you lose touch with reality. No. Just the opposite. Meditation aims at awareness of the here and now. You don’t let your mind wander to the past or future, to the tug of memories or plans; but you also don’t compel your thoughts to go somewhere you think they should. You don’t strive for bliss or release from old regrets. Meditation is just being where you are.
Which is much much harder than it sounds.
When meditation works, nothing special happens. There’s no mystic ecstasy—just a sense of truly being present. Sitting in the cabin of Li’s shuttle, I simply perceived what was there. The plush seats. The dusty smell of upholstery. The motion of the shuttle. The sound of Tut’s breathing. My own breathing. My own breath.
No fancy life force perception. Just being awake and aware. Calmer than I’d been in a long time. Certainly better meditation than I’d managed in many a month or year…
Suddenly furious, I jerked back to my normal clenched-up ground-state: ambushed by the thought that the Balrog was behind my atypical meditation success. It was helping me—clearing my mind. Since becoming an Explorer (and long before that), I’d only managed fitful bits of quiet…a second here, a second there, interspersed with long bouts where my thoughts drifted off on a string of casual distractions. Sitting sessions still helped me relax, but they’d seldom delved anywhere deeper. Now, unexpectedly, with all the troubles on my mind, why could I immediately reach a crystal-clear dhyana state and hold it?
The Balrog was manipulating my mind: making meditation trivially easy.
You demon, I thought. You’ve ruined this for me. You’ve cheapened the most valuable thing in my life.
I could never meditate again. If I achieved any heightened awareness, I’d always fear it was the Balrog’s doing. And if I didn’t achieve any “skillful effect,” what was the point of meditation?
“You utter bastard,” I said in a low voice. “You’ve cut my lifeline.”
No answer.
For the rest of the trip, I just stared out the window at the black airlessness of space.