Neon Lotus (29 page)

“Goodbye,
Pema,” Marianne said. “Goodbye, Dhondub. And Reting?”

The doctor
reappeared; even through his relief at finding them alive, his anxiety was
apparent. “Yes, Marianne?”

“Cheer up,”
she said. “I . . . I’ve made my peace with Tashi. The
amrita led me to his memories. He and I, we’re really engaged in the same work,
you know?”

Dr. Norbu’s
face lit up with delight. “I’ve known that all along, Marianne. Good luck!”

“Good luck
yourself,” she replied.

Jetsun
turned off the screen.

“We can’t
circle around in the air all night,” he said. "And I wouldn’t want to
blunder over that powerplant in the dark. I have a feeling it’s well protected.
Besides, they might be expecting us after what happened in Golmud.”

“What do you
propose?” she asked.

“Well,
there’s a nice flat valley below—dark, too. We’re perhaps an hour from our
destination. Let’s stop here and sleep for a few hours.”

She agreed.
He set the plane into a slow, circling descent. She watched his hands moving
over the controls and remembered the first night she’d flown with him, the
night they’d crossed into the Tibetan Autonomous Region from Mustang. He had
been a stranger to her then, yet she had been impressed immediately by his
skill, his dedication. She had never seen anything in Jetsun to negate her
first impression.

He must have
felt her eyes. Glancing at her sideways for a moment, he grinned.

“What are
you thinking about?” he asked.

“I was
wondering how many hours we had for sleep.”

His smile
broadened. “Winter’s coming. The nights are long.

* * *

She awoke to
the sound of whispering, a muted conversation. Reaching out in the dark she
found Jetsun’s place empty, the blankets cold. It was the growing chill that
had brought her slowly from a peaceful sleep. She got to her knees, peered over
the seats, and saw that the curtain had been pulled across the cabin. It was Jetsun
she heard—and someone else. A man.

She slipped
quietly down the aisle. The wind howled around the body of the plane, louder
than the voices. She touched the curtain lightly, then pulled it aside.

Jetsun
looked up at her, nodded, and put a finger to his lips.

The lotus
sat on the control panel before him, in full bloom, dancing with light. The
second voice she’d heard was that of the three-eyed man. She had entered in the
middle of what sounded like a complex dissertation complete with moving
holograms. She settled down in the second pilot’s seat and tried to pick up the
thread of the exposition.

Jetsun must
have asked for a thorough description of the vajra project, including every
particle of information that resided in the dead man’s mind. She saw a number
of two-eyed people dressed in claret and yellow robes, traditional monastic
garb. They carried tool kits and sat at consoles, monitoring the operation of
the vajra project. Their overseers were three-eyes, and the monks seemed
totally in awe of the “masters”; they constantly bowed and scraped and prayed
for guidance as they scurried about trying to coax mystical power from the
indestructible scepter of enlightenment.

Despite the
information known to the three-eyed man, Jetsun was dissatisfied.

“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 figure
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.