Lord of Light (8 page)

He addressed the man who stood before him in line:

"Why is it," he asked, "that some men do have discs of their own?"

"It is because they have registered," said the other, without turning his head.

"In the Temple?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

He waited half a minute, then inquired, "Those who are unregistered, and wish to use it—they push the buttons?"

"Yes," said the other, "spelling out their name, occupation, and address."

"Supposing one be a visitor here, such as myself?"

"You should add the name of your city."

"Supposing one is unlettered, such as myself—what then?"

The other turned to him. "Perhaps ''twere better," he said, "that you make prayer in the old way, and give the donation directly into the hands of the priests. Or else register and obtain a disc of your own."

"I see," said the prince. "Yes, you are right. I must think of this more. Thank you."

He left the line and circled the fountain to where the Sign of the Awl hung upon a pillar. He moved up the Street of the Weavers.

Three times did he ask after Janagga the sailmaker, the third time of a short woman with powerful arms and a small mustache, who sat cross-legged, plaiting a rug, in her stall beneath the low eave of what once might have been a stable and still smelled as if it were.

She growled him directions, after raking him upward and down again with oddly lovely brown-velvet eyes. He followed her directions, taking his way up a zigzagging alley and down an outer stair, which ran along the wall of a five-story building, ending at a door that opened upon a basement hallway. It was damp and dark within.

He knocked upon the third door to his left, and after a time it opened.

The man stared at him. "Yes?"

"May I come in? It is a matter of some urgency . . ."

The man hesitated a moment, then nodded abruptly and stepped aside.

The prince moved past him and into his chamber. A great sheet of canvas was spread out over the floor, before the stool upon which the man reseated himself. He motioned the prince into the only other chair in the room.

He was short and big in the shoulders; his hair was pure white, and the pupils of his eyes bore the smoky beginnings of cataract invasion. His hands were brown and hard, the joints of his fingers knotted.

"Yes?" he repeated.

"Jan Olvegg," said the other.

"The old man's eyes widened, then narrowed to slits.

He weighed a pair of scissors in his hand.

"'It's a long way to Tipperary,' " said the prince.

The man stared, then smiled suddenly. "'If your heart's not here,'" he said, placing the scissors on his workstand. "How long has it been, Sam?" he asked.

"I've lost count of the years."

"Me too. But it must be forty — forty-five?—since I've seen you. Much beer over the damn dam since then, I daresay?"

Sam nodded.

"I don't really know where to begin . . ." said the man.

"For a start, tell me—why 'Janagga'?"

"Why not?" asked the other. "It has a certain earnest, working-class sound about it. How about yourself? Still in the prince business?"

"I'm still me," said Sam, "and they still call me Siddhartha when they come to call."

The other chuckled. "And 'Binder of the Demons,'" he recited. "Very good. I take it, then, since your fortunes do not match your garb, that you are casing the scene, as is your wont."

Sam nodded. "And I have come upon much which I do not understand."

"Aye," sighed Jan. "Aye. How shall I begin? How? I shall tell you of myself, that's how. . . . I have accumulated too much bad karma to warrant a current transfer."

"What?"

"Bad karma, that's what I said. The old religion is not only
the
religion—it is the revealed, enforced and frighteningly demonstrable religion. But don't think that last part too loudly. About a dozen years ago the Council authorized the use of psych-probes on those who were up for renewal. This was right after the Accelerationist-Deicrat split, when the Holy Coalition squeezed out the tech boys and kept right on squeezing. The simplest solution was to outlive the problem. The Temple crowd then made a deal with the body sellers, customers were brain-probed and Accelerationists were refused renewal, or . . . well . . . simple as that. There aren't too many Accelerationists now. But that was only the beginning. The god party was quick to realize that therein lay the way of power. Having your brains scanned has become a standard procedure, just prior to a transfer. The body merchants are become the Masters of Karma, and a part of the Temple structure. They read over your past life, weigh the karma, and determine your life that is yet to come. It's a perfect way of maintaining the caste system and ensuring Deicratic control. By the way, most of our old acquaintances are in it up to their halos."

"God!" said Sam.

"Plural," Jan corrected. "They've always been considered gods, with their Aspects and Attributes, but they've made it awfully official now. And anyone who happens to be among the First had bloody well better be sure whether he wants quick deification or the pyre when he walks into the Hall of Karma these days.

"When's your appointment?" he finished.

"Tomorrow," said Sam, "in the afternoon. . . . Why are you still walking around, if you don't have a halo or a handful of thunderbolts?"

"Because I do have a couple friends, both of whom suggested I continue living—quietly—rather than face the probe. I took their sage advice to heart and consequently am still around to mend sails and raise occasional hell in the local bistros. Else"—he raised a callused hand, snapped his fingers—"else, if not the real death, then perhaps a body shot full with cancer, or the interesting life of a gelded water buffalo, or . . ."

"A dog?" asked Sam.

"Just so," Jan replied.

Jan filled the silence and two glasses with a splashing of alcohol.

"Thanks."

"Happy hellfire." He replaced the bottle on his workstand.

"On an empty stomach yet. . . . You make that yourself?"

"Yep. Got a still in the next room."

"Congratulations, I guess. If I had any bad karma, it should all be dissolved by now."

"The definition of bad karma is anything our friends the gods don't like."

"What made you think you had some?"

"I wanted to start passing out machines among our descendants here. Got batted down at Council for it. Recanted, and hoped they'd forget. But Accelerationism is so far out now that it'll never make it back in during my lifetime. Pity, too. I'd like to lift sail again, head off toward another horizon. Or lift ship. . ."

"The probe is actually sensitive enough to spot something as intangible as an Accelerationist attitude?"

"The probe," said Jan, "is sensitive enough to tell what you had for breakfast eleven years ago yesterday and where you cut yourself shaving that morning, while humming the Andorran national anthem."

"They were experimental things when we left home," said Sam. "The two we brought along were very basic brain-wave translators. When did the breakthrough occur?"

"Hear me, country cousin," said Jan. "Do you remember a snot-nosed brat of dubious parentage, third generation, named Yama? The kid who was always souping up generators, until one day one blew and he was so badly burned that he got his second body—one over fifty years old—when he was only sixteen? The kid who loved weapons? The fellow who anesthetized one of everything that moves out there and dissected it, taking such pleasure in his studies that we called him deathgod?"

"Yes, I recall him. Is he still alive?"

"If you want to call it that. He now
is
deathgod—not by nickname, but by title. He perfected the probe about forty years ago, but the Deicrats kept it under wraps until fairly recently. I hear he's dreamed up some other little jewels, too, to serve the will of the gods . . . like a mechanical cobra capable of registering encephalogram readings from a mile away, when it rears and spreads its fan. It can pick one man out of a crowd, regardless of the body he wears. There is no known antidote for its venom. Four seconds, no more. . . . Or the fire wand, which is said to have scored the surfaces of all three moons while Lord Agni stood upon the seashore and waved it. And I understand that he is designing some sort of jet-propelled juggernaut for Lord Shiva at this moment. . . things like that."

"Oh," said Sam.

"Will you pass the probe?" Jan asked.

"I'm afraid not," he replied. "Tell me, I saw a machine this morning which I think may best be described as a pray-o-mat—are they very common?"

"Yes," said Jan. "They appeared about two years ago—dreamed up by young Leonardo over a short glass of soma one night. Now that the karma idea has caught on, the things are better than tax collectors. When mister citizen presents himself at the clinic of the god of the church of his choice on the eve of his sixtieth year, his prayer account is said to be considered along with his sin account, in deciding the caste he will enter—as well as the age, sex and health of the body he will receive. Nice. Neat."

"I will not pass the probe," said Sam, "even if I build up a mighty prayer account. They'll snare me when it comes to sin."

"What sort of sin?"

"Sins I have yet to commit, but which are being written in my mind as I consider them now."

"You plan to oppose the gods?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"I do not yet know. I shall begin, however, by contacting them. Who is their chief?"

"I can name you no one. Trimurti rules—that is, Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. Which of these three be chiefest at any one time, I cannot say. Some say Brahma—"

"Who are they—really?" asked Sam.

Jan shook his head. "I do not know. They all wear different bodies than they did a generation ago. They all use god names."

Sam stood. "I will return later, or send for you."

"I hope so. . . . Another drink?"

Sam shook his head. "I go to become Siddhartha once more, to break my fast at the hostel of Hawkana and announce there my intent to visit the Temples. If our friends are now gods then they must commune with their priests. Siddhartha goes to pray."

"Then put in no words for me," said Jan, as he poured out another drink. "I do not know whether I would live through a divine visitation."

Sam smiled. "They are not omnipotent."

"I sincerely hope not," replied the other, "but I fear that day is not far off."

"Good sailing, Jan."

"
Skaal
."

Prince Siddhartha stopped on the Street of the Smiths, on his way to the Temple of Brahma. Half an hour later he emerged from a shop, accompanied by Strake and three of his retainers. Smiling, as though he had received a vision of what was to come, he passed through the center of Mahartha, coming at last to the high, wide Temple of the Creator.

Ignoring the stares of those who stood before the pray-o-mat, he mounted the long, shallow stairway, meeting at the Temple entrance with the high priest, whom he had advised earlier of his coming.

Siddhartha and his men entered the Temple, disarming themselves and paying preliminary obeisances toward its central chamber before addressing the priest.

Strake and the others drew back a respectful distance as the prince placed a heavy purse in the priest's hands and said, in a low voice:

"I'd like to speak with God."

The priest studied his face as he replied, "The Temple is open to all. Lord Siddhartha, where one may commune with Heaven for so long as one wishes."

"That is not exactly what I had in mind," said Siddhartha. "I was thinking of something more personal than a sacrifice and a long litany."

"I do not quite follow you . . ."

"But you understand the weight of that purse, do you not? It contains silver. Another which I bear is filled with gold—payable upon delivery. I want to use your telephone."

"Tele . . . ?"

"Communication system. If you were of the First, such as I, you would understand my reference."

"I do not . . ."

"I assure you my call will not reflect adversely upon your wardenship here. I am aware of these matters and my discretion has always been a byword among the First. Call First Base yourself and inquire, if it will put you at ease. I'll wait here in the outer chamber. Tell them Sam would have words with Trimurti. They will take the call."

"I do not know. . ."

Sam withdrew the second purse and weighed it in the palm of his hand. The priest's eyes fell upon it and he licked his lips.

"Wait here," he ordered, and he turned on his heel and left the chamber.

Ili
, the fifth note of the harp, buzzed within the Garden of the Purple Lotus.

Brahma loafed upon the edge of the heated pool, where he bathed with his harem. His eyes appeared closed, as he leaned there upon his elbows, his feet dangling in the water.

But he stared out from beneath his long lashes, watching the dozen girls at sport in the pool, hoping to see one or more cast an appreciative glance upon the dark, heavily muscled length of his body. Black upon brown, his mustaches glistened in moist disarray and his hair was a black wing upon his back. He smiled a bright smile in the filtered sunlight.

But none of them appeared to notice, so he refolded his smile and put it away. All their attention lay with the game of water polo in which they were engaged.

Ili
, the bell of communication, buzzed once more, as an artificial breeze waited the odor of garden jasmine to his nostrils. He sighed. He wanted so for them to worship him—his powerful physique, his carefully molded features. To worship him as a man, not as a god.

But though his special and improved body permitted feats no mortal man could duplicate, still he felt uneasy in the presence of an old war horse like Lord Shiva—who, despite his adherence to the normal body matrix, seemed to hold far more attraction for women. It was almost as if sex were a thing that transcended biology; and no matter how hard he tried to suppress the memory and destroy that segment of spirit, Brahma had been born a woman and somehow was woman still. Hating this thing, he had elected to incarnate time after time as an eminently masculine man, did so, and still felt somehow inadequate, as though the mark of his true sex were branded upon his brow. It made him want to stamp his foot and grimace.