Dennis Schmidt - Wayfarer 3 - Satori

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SATORI
Dennis A. Schmidt
v2.5 – fixed broken paragraphs, garbled text, formatting; by peragwinn 2004-12-13
This book is dedicated to
Edward Wilson, Ludwig Wittgenstein, Martin Heidegger and my parents
PROLOGUE
The probe slid cautiously toward the fifth planet. All its sensors were extended to their fullest, sending
out wave after wave of careful electronic questioning. Aside from the usual background whisperings of
interplanetary space, only a dead silence returned. Nevertheless, the probe remained tensely alert, ready
to run at the slightest sign of hostility.
It paused as if in surprise when it detected the five starships that hung in geosync orbit above the
cloud-speckled surface of the world it was approaching. A series of inquiries in various modes and
frequencies failed to elicit any response. All five appeared to be dead lumps of orbiting metal. Four were
even partially dismantled, showing gaping holes in their hulls. Only one, a dead black monster, seemed
completely intact. Visual identification showed it to be a Class B Command Ship of a design at least eight
hundred years old! The probe checked its memory cubes for the exact call numbers and tried to contact
the ship's computer directly. Again, its efforts were met with a total, deathlike silence.
More confidently now, the probe moved toward the planet. The Class B, which could have squashed
it as easily as a human could squash an ant, remained totally inactive, perhaps even defunct. The four
Class F Arks (identification had finally been achieved despite their condition) that orbited with it were
empty—and didn't carry weaponry in any case. There were no indications of dangerous or hostile
activities anywhere within the system. Even the surface of the planet was quiet.
The probe took up a position behind the largest of the four moons. The light reflecting from the vast
ice fields that covered the satellite showed the intruder clearly for the first time. It was no more than forty
feet from end to end. Its center was dominated by a large, dead black globe, some fifteen feet in
diameter. At either end, four more globes, equally black, about five feet in diameter, clustered together.
In between the three groups stretched a thin, weblike tracery of cables and girders that held the pieces
together.
Twice the probe followed the moon around the planet, always keeping position on its far side. The
third time around, the smaller globes detached themselves, one by one, moving slightly inward, to form a
loose ring just inside the orbit of the moon and keeping pace with it. Two more orbits and they began to
move closer and closer, tightening their ring, until they took up positions well within the path of the
smallest, closest, and fastest of the four satellites.
Reaching their final orbits, they hung there silently for a while. Then they began to chatter, sending
streams of information to the large globe that still hid behind the moon. Every few revolutions, the heart of
the probe aimed its antenna outward and squirted a high-speed data-crammed message toward the stars.
Deep in interstellar space, another antenna received the messages. And slowly a huge, dark shape
began to move in their direction.
PART ONE
In every serious philosophical question uncertainty extends to the very roots of the problem.
We must always be prepared to learn something totally new.
—Ludwig Wittgenstein
I
"She's quiet as a suspension vault, Worship."
The tension on the bridge relaxed just slightly, but every hand stayed poised over its switch. "An
sensors are operational?" The question came from the small, purple-robed man standing in the center of
the bridge area.
"Aye, aye. All functioning within six decimals of optimal."
"No sign of electromagnetic discharge?"
"Minor, Worship. Nothing that can't be accounted for by natural sources."
"What about visible wave lengths on the night side?"
"Marginal. Something that appears to be an active volcanic chain. Nothing indicating large population
clusters."
"How about the longer wave lengths? No radio at all?" queried a tall, well-formed man in a deep blue
military uniform. He wore several medals on his chest and there was gold braid around the brim of his
cap."No, sir. Not a peep. Just random discharge from a large storm centered over the northern continent
and minor whistles from a few others scattered here and there."
"Evaluation," demanded the man in the robe.
A young woman in a brown robe responded with a crisp, "Yes, Worship" and began to punch at
lighted squares on the console in front of her. After a moment she looked up. "Evaluation, Worship. Point
four chance of human habitation. Class Three optimal, Class One minimal."
"Class Three," he murmured. "Preindustrial. Transitional, if I remember correctly.”
The woman nodded. "Yes, Worship. Approximately equivalent to Earth, Western European Sector,
around the turn of the nineteenth century A.D. That's, let's see," she punched quickly at the squares again,
"ummmm, about fourteen hundred years ago. Industry was just beginning. Small scale, family owned.
Most water powered. Some steam. Petrochemicals still unused and ..."
"Weapons technology?" snapped the military man.
"Ummmm ... well, sir, primitive. Gunpowder-propelled missiles. Muskets, cannons, nothing much
more than that. I don't even think they were repeating weapons. But that's not my specialty."
"No matter,” he dismissed her with a wave, turning to face the man they all referred to as "Worship."
"Bishop Thwait,” he began with a slight inclination of his head, "if Your Worship agrees, I think we
can stand down from full red alert. It seems that if this colony survives at all, it's degenerated to the point
where it offers no threat."
The bishop raised one white eyebrow and asked, "The flagship?"
Immediately a second brown-robed figure at a console across the bridge responded. "Quiescent,
Worship. Seems dysfunctional. All vital power readings zero. Evaluation: dead, Worship."
"Hmmmmmm. Well, then, yes, Admiral, I agree. I think yellow alert is sufficient. Do you concur?"
The admiral nodded. "Sufficient. Yes." He turned to an orderly standing nearby. "Stand down from
full red alert, mister. Establish yellow alert."
"Aye, aye, sir." The man walked over to a console, pressed down a lever and spoke into a grid.
"Now hear this. Now hear this. All hands stand down from full red alert. Stand down from full red alert.
Crew Block Two establish yellow alert. Crew Block Two establish yellow alert. That is all." He turned to
the admiral and saluted. "Sir, report crew standing down from full red alert. Report Crew Block Two
establishing yellow alert. Sir."
"Good. Worship, I think we should confer on this situation and our planned course of action,
soonest. My cabin."
"Agreed, Admiral. The time seems propitious." He turned and spoke to the robed figures who made
up about half of those manning the consoles scattered about the bridge area. "My children, you will stay
alert and on duty until relieved. Huron, I want the sensors in farther, just within the atmosphere for several
turns. Calmanor, break out the photo-probes and send them in for low-level scan. If this is a Class
Three, that is about the only way we will get any data short of landing. And remember, all of you, collect
and correlate as much data as possible, as soon as possible. No guesses, no errors. Data."
Although their eyes never left the dials and meters on their consoles, a murmur of obedience rose
from the robed ones. For a moment the little man stood and watched, a musing expression on his
sharp-featured face. Then he lifted both hands into the air, joining forefinger with forefinger, thumb with
thumb to form a single large circle. “In the name of Reality, in the name of the Circle, in the name of the
Power, in the name of Humanity," he pronounced with ritual solemnity. Even as they continued to watch
their instruments, everyone on the bridge, robed and unrobed alike, raised their right hand, forming a
small circle with forefinger and thumb and intoned, "So be it and so it shall be." A slight pause, a slight
satisfied nod, and the bishop turned and followed the admiral from the room.
The cabin directly adjoined the bridge so they didn't have far to walk. "Care for anything, Andrew?"
the admiral asked as the bishop settled into one of the chairs in the front sitting room.
"No, Thomas, no thanks. A bit too early for me. But go ahead. I guess the major strain of this
contact procedure rests on your shoulders. After all, you are the one in charge of fighting or running."
"Huh," snorted the military man. "Not much of either here. No way to build a career contacting Class
Threes. If it's even that! Damn. She did say only point four, right? Damn planet might be empty. I 'd
hoped for a little action."
"Like at Quarnon?" Andrew asked softly.
"Yes, damn it! Like Quarnon!" the other man snapped back in sudden anger. "I know you priests
didn't approve of that action, but I still believe we had no choice. We had to smash those bastards before
they smashed us."
"But the whole planet, Thomas, the whole planet? Was that not a bit extreme? It might have been
useful unburnt, you know."
"I lost two ships in that battle," the admiral answered grimly. "Good men, all of them. Damn near
bought vacuum myself." He paused, his face harsh with remembered hatred and anger. "Bastards got
what they had coming to 'em. They asked for it."
Andrew Thwait, Bishop of the Power, looked carefully at the man who stood glaring down at him
over the top of a glass filled with the finest whiskey Earth could offer. Thomas Yamada, Admiral of the
First Expeditionary Fleet, was a man of action and ambition. How else could one explain the presence of
such a high-ranking officer aboard a scout ship? Thomas wanted to be in on the excitement, the contact,
the possible battle and subjugation of every new colony world they found. Unlike most other men of his
rank, he refused to stay behind a desk back with the rest of the fleet. Simple blood lust and a zest for
adventure demanded that he be out front, taking the risks and getting the thrills himself. Everyone called
him the Fighting Admiral, and he loved it.
He's well-suited for the role, Andrew thought. Tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, muscular,
handsome, he was everyone's vision of the brave soldier. His black hair was precisely cut and seemed
almost like a dark, shining helmet. Two calm, midnight eyes challenged the world with an unwavering
stare. An aquiline nose, firm mouth, and strong chin completed his face and gave him the commanding
look of a recruiting-poster model or vid-program hero.
Yet he had faults, and serious ones, as far as Andrew was concerned. First and foremost was his
strongly militaristic mind-set. For Thomas, every conflict, no matter how minor, took on the character of
total war. The only method he had for dealing with a problem was to destroy the cause of it.
Not that Bishop Thwait saw anything wrong with destroying one's enemies. Far from it. Killing was
often the simplest and the most efficient method. But Thomas liked killing in large quantities. He talked of
mega-deaths, even planet-deaths. And killing was always the admiral's first, if not only, approach to the
solution of conflicts. The bastards always asked for it.
Actually, the bishop realized, this simplistic view of the world was probably the result of the admiral's
other fault: Put succinctly, Thomas wasn't terribly bright. Oh, he was intelligent enough in a limited way.
But obviously he hadn't been smart enough to enter the Temple for training in the Power.
Perhaps it was this lack of real intelligence that accounted for Thomas's tendency to reduce every
question into one of "Surrender or I shoot." Perhaps he simply had a bloodthirsty nature. In either case,
the man utterly lacked subtlety. His thoughts went in straight lines ... and usually ended in collisions. He
was incapable of seeing that there were other ways of overcoming barriers than just smashing them
down.
Andrew sighed. And I have to be saddled with him as. my co-commander on this expedition, he
thought. I'd much rather have had Davidson, especially for this particular situation. She was most
reasonable, for a military type, and capable of clever, subtle maneuvering. The Power awed her, or at
least she pretended it did, so she was quite tractable and open to suggestion. Altogether the sort of
person needed for this potentially touchy contact. But no, Thomas had smelled glory and demanded it for
himself. Ah, well, Andrew sighed mentally, there are ways. Thomas will do. Not as pliable a tool as
some, but he will do all the same. The Power always triumphs.
Devious bastard; the admiral thought, returning Bishop Thwait's cool scrutiny over the top of his
whiskey glass. They're all devious, these priests of the Power. If I had the power they control ... Damn!
Who'd need to be devious? Just demand what you want. If anybody objects ... zaaaap! All that science
at their command. Shit. The Power is well named! Wonder what he's thinking right now?
Searching for some clue, he scrutinized the figure sitting so calmly before him. The ice blue eyes were
as cold and closed as ever. The sharp, straight nose pointed to the grim line of a mourn that indicated
decisiveness and efficiency rather than emotionality. The pale skin was smooth, unwrinkled, lacking either
smile or worry lines. Closely cropped pure white hair completed an appearance that yielded nothing,
remaining cool and aloof. Long, slender hands lay quietly in the lap of the purple robe. Beneath that robe,
the rest of the figure must be equally spare and simple, Thomas thought. And tiny. The man was so tiny!
Barely five feet tall.
Physical size didn't really matter in a priest of the Power, though, and Thomas knew it. Brains were
all that counted. Sheer intelligence. And tiny little Bishop Thwait had more than his share. The man had
worked his way up through the hierarchy by exercising a combination of pure brilliance and breathtaking
ruthless-ness. His schemes were so devious, so involute and multilayered, that no one over knew exactly
what he would do next, or why. All one could depend on was that the bishop would accomplish
whatever it was he set out to do and that anyone who stood in his way was doomed.
And that's why the Committee sent me on this mission, he thought. Something's up when a bishop of
the Power, especially Thwait, goes out on a scout ship to make contact. Something special, something
worth keeping a close watch over. Perhaps even something that could be useful to the Committee, could
serve in the struggle against the Power.
He frowned. But now I'm beginning to wonder. That planet's nothing. Oh, maybe rich enough in
resources. But hardly important enough to rate the attentions of a bishop. It doesn't even look like the
colony made it, might not even have any human life at all. Strange, he mused. Very strange. Because I'm
sure Andrew was expecting something. Ordinarily he's as cool as deep vacuum. But he was excited
about this contact. He even looked nervous on the bridge just now, picking and fiddling with the sleeve of
his robe.
Damn it, there's got to be something here! I smelted it. I knew it. What the hell is it?
The bishop cleared his throat. "Ummmm, Thomas. I think we should proceed with caution. I know
there are no signs of activity, hostile or friendly, on the planet, and that the flagship seems to be
incapacitated. But let me urge care even now. Until we are sure that what seems to be true is indeed so."
Sitting opposite the bishop, Admiral Yamada took a long, thoughtful sip from his glass. "How long?"
"Oh, well, several turns to establish all the basic parameters. Then, say, forty-eight standards for an
analysis, perhaps another forty-eight for full evaluation. By that time we should be ready to set up a
definite plan for contact with whatever Pilgrims have survived on the surface."
"If any've survived. Hell, Andrew, we don't have to wait that long. Even if any of 'em did make it,
they've got nothing to match us. Easiest thing is to find some big population center, blast it, and lay down
the law to 'em. No need for all this analysis and evaluation nonsense."
Andrew rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, steepled his long fingers, their tips just touching
his nose, and gazed abstractedly at the floor. "Perhaps, perhaps not, Thomas, but, you see, there may be
a few things about this particular pilgrimage you do not know."
His eyes lifted and met the admiral's for a few moments of cool appraisal. "I take it you have read the
briefing on this planet? Good. Then you know the leader of the pilgrimage fleet was a man named Arthur
Nakamura, a full fleet admiral.
"What you aren't aware of, because it wasn't in the report, is that Nakamura was a High Master of
the Universal Way of Zen."
Thomas looked surprised. "A military man and some kind of priest?"
The bishop smiled. "Not as impossible as it sounds. Before the Readjustment many strange religions
abounded on Earth. Zen was one of them. And there was nothing in their tenets to keep a man from
combining warfare with high religious office."
"Huh. Sounds sensible to me."
"Hmmmmmmm, yes. Well, the Zenists were one of the most stubborn groups opposing the
Readjustment, Thomas. There are none left on Earth. We had to readjust them all. Terrible loss, really.
Many were quite brilliant."
The admiral shuddered inwardly. And they call us bloodthirsty, he thought. They "readjust" their
enemies, destroy their minds, turn them into slobbering, pissing, shitting hulks that starve to death because
they haven't enough sense left to feed themselves. That's civilized, clean, scientific; in keeping with the
Power. Because some damn machine of theirs does the dirty work for them. Hell. At least I give my
enemies a clean, quick, honorable death.
"Ah, well," the bishop mused, "the lessons of the past, and all that. It is a pity we did not keep a few
of them around. They knew so much we would like to know.
"Anyway, I drift from my purpose. Nakamura was a High Master. I know you have no idea what
that means, but imagine it as the approximate equivalent of a Cardinal of the Power. But with abilities of
his own that went beyond the Power in some way we do not understand. That was the kind of man that
led this pilgrimage."
Thomas shrugged. "So? Your own man said it. It's quiet as a suspension vault down there. If this
fighting priest of yours was such a damn genius, what happened? Looks to me like he blew it."
"Yes. And that is exactly what worries me." He shifted position and leaned quickly forward, fixing the
other with his sharp stare. "Thomas, the man's success probability quotient on that pilgrimage has been
estimated at ninety-six percent. Ninety-six percent! I have never seen such a high figure!
"And yet, from a first look at things, it does indeed seem he failed. Utterly. "
"Which can mean one of several things. First, things are exactly as they appear. He failed. Totally, or
at least so badly that the colony has degenerated almost to the point of being uncivilized. "
"But the major question one must then ask is 'Why?' After all, he had a ninety-six percent chance of
success, he led a fully equipped pilgrimage with a flagship and four Arks. You know the firepower of that
ship hanging out there, Thomas, and the amount of technology crammed aboard those Arks. What could
have happened to them? Was there some unsuspected enemy lurking in the system, or even down on the
planet? Some enemy capable of overcoming a ninety-six percent rating and a fully armed flagship? I do
not like it, Thomas. There are just too many unanswered questions. Anything that could defeat a Class B
would have to be big and powerful. Why have we not detected it? Or anything else, for that matter? Is
there still an enemy skulking about? What could it be? And where is it? Still here, somewhere, waiting,
waiting for us?"
He paused for a moment to let the words sink deep into the admiral's mind. Then, in a sudden swish
of robes, the bishop stood and began to pace about the room. "But some things just do not fit that kind
of an analysis. There are no signs of any struggle, let alone a major battle. That flagship may be defunct,
but it is intact. It has never been blasted and the hull has never been breached. And even though those
Arks are in bad shape, it's because they were purposefully dismantled so the materials could be used
on-planet. So," he continued, "we are left with the obvious alternative. Some eight hundred years ago the
pilgrimage led by Admiral and High Master Nakamura landed here and succeeded."
Thomas straightened up, carefully placing his now empty glass on the arm of his chair. "Shit," he said
softly. "If that happened ...then in eight hundred years they'd have ..."He paused for a moment. "They
were state-of-the-art on leaving, right?" The bishop nodded. "Huh, even allowing for a bit of backsliding,
they should be at least a Class Six by now. Like Quarnon."
"Yes, Thomas. Like Quarnon."
"So that's why you wanted this one to yourself, eh, Andrew?"
The bishop nodded silently.
"I realize it's classified material, Power business and all that, but I think I've got a justifiable need to
know in this case: Did the hierarchy ever achieve contact with this colony?"
"A message was sent, Thomas. And receipt was acknowledged by the flagship. No reply was ever
received. And new inquiries weren't even acknowledged."
The admiral studied the floor for a few seconds, then raised his eyes and met the other man's quiet
gaze. "You think this might all be a trap?"
Andrew shrugged. "Who knows? By all the odds we should have found a flourishing colony down
there. The initial readouts from our own probe sensors give the planet a rating in the high nineties. They
had all the right equipment. And exceptional leadership. Plus eight hundred years in which to develop.
"Yet all we find is silence. No indication of anything above a Class Three, if even that. It just does not
make sense. And I neither like nor trust things that do not make sense."
Thomas Yamada leaned back, closed his eyes, and gently stroked his temples with his fingers.
"Should we return to full red, Andrew? They could be suckering us into relaxing, just waiting until we're
off guard." He opened his eyes and began to rise.
The bishop held up a restraining hand. "No, no. Yellow is sufficient for now. We know something is
wrong, but we still do not know what. So far we've discovered nothing immediately threatening, so I see
no sense in exhausting the men by keeping them on full red. No, I think we have to play a careful waiting
game. Move slowly and precisely. Leave nothing undone, no option uncovered. We should send probes
to every planet, every large rock, in this system. If they are hiding, they could be anywhere. And we
should keep collecting data on the planet itself. Perhaps even send a team down. That is the key,
Thomas: careful data gathering. Once we have the right information, the answer will appear."
He paused for a moment, his expression turning thoughtful. "Hmmmmmm, yes. The answer will
appear. Thomas, I have a growing feeling we are fighting a battle of wits with a very subtle and brilliant
opponent, one, moreover, who has been dead for eight hundred years."
"Nakamura?"
"Nakamura. This may be the final, ultimate confrontation between the forces of the Power and last
remnants of our enemy. Fascinating."
There was a knock at the door. The admiral barked out a Yes. The door opened and a
brown-robed acolyte stood there, embarrassed to have interrupted, but obviously brimming with news.
"What is it, my child?" the bishop asked, taking a step toward the young man.
"Worship. Pardon for interrupting. But we've just gotten the surface-scan photos in."
"And?" questioned the bishop.
"The planet's definitely inhabited, Worship. There are humans down there. Lots of them. And they're
not primitive!"
II
The sun's first rays leapt over the horizon and soared westward, brushing Myali Wang's still face as
they passed. More and then more light poured toward her until her whole body was wrapped in the
warm, glowing cloak of morning.
This is the day, whispered a silent voice in her mind.
I am ready, she replied. I await the others.
There are five candidates, the voice continued. They have entered the Judgement Hall and are being
prepared. Come when the others arrive.
Soon, she answered. I sense the approach of Mind Brothers.
She gazed down the hill on whose crest she sat and spied four darkly robed figures moving softly
through the morning dimness that still clung to the narrow, tree-filled valley below. We always wear black
for Judgement, she thought. How much nicer bright yellow would be.
The Mind Brothers she tended pulled gently against her restraints, attracted by the approach of
others of their kind. Go, Brothers, she silently allowed and then laughed out loud as they tumbled invisibly
down the hill to meet the newcomers in a swirling dance of welcome. To think our ancestors actually
feared and hated them, she wondered, amused by their playful exuberance.
There had been good reason for their fear and hatred, of course. When men had first found the
planet, it had seemed so perfect they called it Kensho after one of the stages of Enlightenment. They
landed at First Touch and began to set up Base Camp. Quickly they shuttled down the Pilgrims and their
equipment, delighted with the apparent tranquility and promise of the new world.
Their joy had been short-lived.
Suddenly, from nowhere, the invisible enemy had struck: the Mushin—unseen, undetected creatures
that drove men mad so they could feed on the emotive energy that burst from an insane mind. They
would take a mild emotion, like annoyance, feed it back through the mind in a feedback loop that
spiraled it higher and higher, until it became an uncontrollable rage that blew the mind apart. Then they
would swarm about in a frenzied feeding orgy, and leave nothing behind but a mindless, drooling hulk.
In a flash, the peacefully working Pilgrims turned into a howling, fighting, murdering mob. Every man,
woman, and child fell on every other, clawing, striking, stabbing, killing. Over ninety percent of the
Pilgrims died in what became known to future generations as the Great Madness. The shattered remnant
would have perished too, if it hadn't been for Admiral Nakamura, the leader of the pilgrimage. Nakamura
noticed that most of the survivors had one trait in common—they were devotees and practitioners of one
or another form of mind control. From that information, and his own profound knowledge of the
Universal Way of Zen, Nakamura had guessed the nature of the Mushin and devised a way to combat
them. Mankind had been unable to leave the planet, and the mind leeches had made it impossible to stay,
but there had been a Way—and the admiral had found it.
The fate of humanity on Kensho had had its ups and downs since that time, but thanks to people like
Jerome, Chaka, Edwyr, Yolan, and many others, the Mushin had first been neutralized, then conquered,
and finally tamed. Now, rather than the invisible terror that drove men mad, they were the Mind
Brothers, partners in a new relationship that was still being explored.
Myali came out of her reverie as the four emerged from the trees and walked up the hill toward her.
She didn't know any of them, would have been surprised if she had. People seldom performed
Judgement more than twice in their life and then never with the same partners. It was too much to ask of
anyone. Especially if there was sorrow ...
They arrived and stood around her, waiting. She was the senior judge this time, and it was up to her
to begin. With a fluid movement, she rose and bowed to each one, giving them her name and receiving
theirs in return. The two men were Hiroshi and Karl; the women, Ulla and Marion.
"Gather the Mind Brothers," she said once the introductions were finished. "The candidates are
waiting." One of the women, Ulla, hesitated and Myali turned to her with a gentle smile. "I know," she
reassured, "the first time is difficult. But Judgement is a service required by the Way. And joy is always a
more likely outcome than sorrow. So walk with us, Sister, and hope." The other woman nodded, sighed,
and joined them as they moved off westward, down into a broad valley where a low, rambling building
lay in the distance.
A brisk fifteen-minute walk brought them to the door of the building. A knock was unnecessary for
they were expected, and the door swung open as they reached it. The front room was empty of
everything but a few simple pieces of furniture. In the next room five women and five men sat in
twosomes, trying to look calm. As the judges entered, though, all eyes turned and followed them. Myali
could still feel them on her back as they passed into the inner room.
An old, gray-haired man stood tall and silent in the center of the room. At his feet lay five babies,
wrapped cozily in blankets. He pointed each of them to one of the children. Myali picked up the bundle
on the far left and pulled back the cloth. A tiny, solemn face, mostly big blue eyes, looked up at her.
Hope, she greeted it without speaking. Hope, little one.
When all the babies had been taken from the floor, the old man bowed to each of them in turn. Then
he smiled and said softly, "The garden is lovely this time of the morning."
Myali bowed back. "Does the ko still bloom?"
The old man laughed. "The chill is in my bones. I will go sit in the sun in front of the Hall.” With that,
he bowed again and left by the door through which they had just entered.
Hiroshi looked down at his bundle and the room fell quiet after the old man's departure. "Come," he
said to the baby, "we will go view the ko." The others all nodded and Myali led the way to the other
door, the one that opened into the garden that lay at the rear of the Judgement Hall.
Once in the garden, they wandered off in different directions until each seemed to be alone. Myali
found a moss-covered stone next to a small pond. A water lizard squeaked annoyance as it scurried out
of her way and landed in the water with a plop. After a second, its head popped up and it watched her
with dark, suspicious eyes.
Sitting, she bent over the child again, pulling back the blanket so she could see more of it. Chubby,
healthy, altogether a beautiful child. Peace and hope, she thought at it. I wish you joy.
She sighed deeply. But this, my little one, is Judgement. And I cannot guarantee joy. We face the
moment of truth this day. And truth and joy have no necessary relationship.
It was time, she knew. She held the Mind Brothers in readiness. Now, she thought. Don't wait any
longer. If there is joy, there is joy. If sorrow, sorrow. It is the Way.
She let the Mind Brothers loose. In sick dismay she felt them swoop down on the child, felt the little
body convulse in agony as they struck, heard the strangled cry of anguish ripped from the tiny mouth.
Twice the child twitched, arching its back, beating the air with helpless fists. Then with a silent scream of
mental horror, it died.
Weak and shaken, Myali slumped over the now still form, tears pouring down her face. Sorrow, her
mind wailed, oh sorrowsorrowsorrow. Great sadness flowed through her.
After a few moments she straightened up, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. Yes, she
thought, bright yellow would be better. Even for sorrow. She looked down at the dead baby. I 'm sorry,
little one. But you would have died anyway. Judgement is final. But it is the Way. And it is right.
Joy! Hiroshi shouted into her mind. Joy!
Joy! warbled Ulla. Oh, happiness and joy!
Joy! Joy! came the ringing cries of the other two, their minds overbrimming with gladness.
Sorrow, she wept again. Dark and deep as blackest night, sorrow.
For a few brief moments she felt the grief and mourning of the others surround her, enclosing her in a
wailing anguish that stripped all pain from their minds and souls. They would always feel the sadness of
the loss of the little life. But once the initial impact had been experienced and purged, no one of them
would cling to it, not even Myali. It had to be. It was done.
The sweep of life and the victory of the four could not long be repressed by the sorrow of one. In a
sudden flood their gladness returned and lifted her up and up in joyous celebration. One by one they
appeared, gathering to her in the garden, cradling their precious bundles, crooning to the gurgling, smiling
babies.
Once together, they walked slowly back to the inner room, then through the door to the next room
where the five pairs of parents waited. "Joy!” called Marion and stepped up to a radiantly smiling couple,
handing back the lively bundle. "Joy!" sang the other three and returned the babies to their parents.
Myali approached the last couple, two who stood close and solemn, a cold, weary sadness growing
in their eyes. She held out the small, limp bundle to them. "Honor," she said softly. "Honor but sorrow.
I'm sorry."
The mother took the dead child and cradled it gently against her chest. Tears filled her eyes and ran
down her cheeks. A slight sob broke from the man and his eyes also streamed his grief. Myali spread her
arms around both of them and held them together and wept with them, the sobs racking her body, but
freeing her mind. Eventually they all ceased. The man and woman looked calmly at Myali, gave her one
final hug, then stepped back and bowed. She returned their bows and watched as they turned and left the
room.
The other couples left, too, then the four she had shared Judgement with bowed their farewells. She
stood alone in the room until the old man returned and walked up to her. For several moments they
simply stood and gazed into each other's eyes. Finally, he spoke. "Judgement is. Joy is. Sorrow is. Ko
is." Myali nodded. "The Real Aspect is."
"Where does the child go when it is no more?" he asked.
"They will bury him."
"Where does the child go when it is no more?"
"The bright eyes will grow on his grave."
"Where does the child go when it is no more?"
"It is cool in here. I would like to sit in the sun."
"Ah," the old man sighed. "Would you share breakfast with me? It is simple."
"I am hungry. And hunger is simple."
"Good. Let us sit in the sun and eat." A bowl of boiled cereal grain and a cup of scalding hot tea
helped to warm her insides while the sun did its work from the outside. Gradually her mind calmed and
became serene. She hadn't realized how deeply the child's death had affected her, how far down into the
center of her being its last cry had echoed. Judgement is, she admitted. But...
As if he read her thought, the old man said, "For many months now all has been joy. That is the first
sorrow we have had for some time."
"How much longer, Father? Will we always need it?"
"To stay what we are, to follow the Way set down by Nakamura and Jerome and Edwyr, Judgement
must be. But every year there is less sorrow. The genes change quickly here on Kensho and we do our
best to encourage the change." He looked at her questioningly and she nodded slightly, encouraging him
to continue. The old man who tended the Judgement Hall had been a Keeper when younger and only in
later life had entered the Way as a Seeker. The depth and breadth of his knowledge was well known.
He shifted slightly, settling into a more comfortable position. Once in place, he began to speak again,
his voice shifting to the deep, compelling tone the Keepers used when passing along the Knowledge.
"Under environmental stress, any population with sufficient phylogenetic pliability can move relatively
swiftly from one mode of existence to another. Especially if the genotypes appropriate to the new mode
can be assembled from the material already existing in the current gene pool. And if by chance the
population possesses some kind of pre-adaptation—say, a behavioral pattern which is already functional
in another context and applies in a new way to the new mode so it can act as the basis for a modified
behavioral pattern—the changeover is even surer and swifter.
"Selection, however, isn't on a gene-by-gene basis. It's individuals that survive, and any single person
contains on the order of thousands of genes. Furthermore, the kind of behavioral modifications that are
likely to increase an individual's chance for survival are seldom the result of a single gene. More often
than not, they derive from a combination of and interaction between several genes. Which is why the
simple weeding out of 'undesirable' alleles (even if they could be identified) isn't enough. It's perfectly
possible to have all the right genes, but in the wrong combinations, and end up with the opposite of the
results you want.
"So it's the development and spread of a complex, polygenetic structure that allows the population to
shift its behavioral pattern to the new mode and survive in the new environment.
"Usually, the kind of stress we're talking about is gradual and selection takes place over a long time
span, allowing many genotypes to survive alongside the favored ones. But occasionally stress is sudden,
sharp, and final. A population can crash then, only those individuals surviving who by chance have the
proper polygenetic complex to meet the requirements of the changed conditions. But even under such
severe circumstances, it's possible for-many alleles of the necessary genes to continue in the pool since
minor variations may survive almost as well as the optimal arrangement. In addition, especially if the
adaptation is in the form of an altered social behavior, the benefits of the new pattern may extend even to
those who do not have the complex, increasing the likelihood of their survival despite that lack. In more
intelligent species, there's even the possibility that the pattern may be mimicked or learned through
experience. Although behavior achieved that way can't be passed on genetically, the individual survives
and his genes continue in the pool, perhaps even as a complex which makes his offspring good at
mimicking or learning."
The old man cocked his head to one side and gave Myali a quick, apologetic smile. "I know all this
seems like a rather roundabout and complicated way of answering your question. But it wasn't a simple
question and there is no simple answer." He sighed.
"That's the trouble with the holistic sciences. They lack the virtues of simplicity and elegance. But, no
matter, I wander from your answer.
"When we came to Kensho and landed at First Touch, we suffered just such a sharp environmental
stress. Yes, I imagine the death of ninety percent of the Pilgrims can be considered a 'sharp' stress! The
unforeseen and unexpected presence of the Mushin, with their ability to feed on our emotions and drive
us into the Madness, made a shift in our mode of existence necessary if we were to survive on this planet.
"Luckily, as Nakamura realized when he analyzed the data, the kind of stress the invisible mind
leeches created was one for which a well-established pre-adaptation existed in a number of the Pilgrims.
Put simply, those who made it through the first onslaught were predominantly those trained in some
technique of mental and emotional control.
"But two problems immediately became apparent. First was the fact that barely ten percent of the
original twenty thousand Pilgrims were left alive. The human population on Kensho had suffered a
disastrous depletion. As a result, the number of effectives left to rebuild the race was precariously small.
And the gene pool subsequently available for adaptation to the new situation was limited.
"Second, the pre-adaptation that had made the survival of even a fraction of the Pilgrims possible
was not a genetically encoded one. It was a learned behavioral pattern, requiring years of study and
effort. There was no way to pass it on to the next generation at conception.
"Nakamura understood that his first task was to provide the race with a breathing space, a chance to
multiply our number to the point where we were no longer in danger of becoming extinct before we could
adapt to the new environment. He saw there was no way we could maintain even a slightly sophisticated
technological society, given our scant numbers, so he devised a simple agriculturally based system of
semi-self-sufficient farmsteads with scattered trading-manufacturing centers located in the Brother-and
Sisterhoods.
"But the most important, and brilliant, part of his plan was the creation of the Way of Passivity. At
one stroke, he minimized the danger of the Mushin, secured the time we needed, and shaped the future
direction our evolution would take. The Passivity provided a method of emotional control that allowed
almost everyone to escape the full impact of the mind leeches. It gave us enough immunity to the
Madness to assure we wouldn't be wiped out before we had a chance to increase our numbers.
"By gathering those best able to withstand the stress of the Mushin into the 'hoods, he provided the
creatures with a sure and stable food source which they could control through the Grandfathers. The
Madness still came, of course, even to those in the 'hoods. But it came in smaller doses which didn't
threaten the existence of the whole race. Individual humans died, but humanity lived.
"The 'hoods served two other critical functions as well. First, since the vast majority of the Mushin
tended to gather about the 'hoods as their food source, the rest of the countryside was relatively free of
the creatures, making it safer for the breeding and raising of children. Minimum contact with the mind
leeches during the younger years assured that more had a chance to survive until they could learn the
defenses of the Passivity. It also meant that more survived to breeding age and that the gene pool
suffered as little reduction as possible.
"The other function of the 'hoods was equally important. They served as testing grounds to establish
the degree of Mushin immunity the Brothers and Sisters had achieved. Naturally, those with any level of
genetically determined immunity fared better than those depending strictly on learned behavior. And
摘要：

SATORIDennisA.Schmidtv2.5–fixedbrokenparagraphs,garbledtext,formatting;byperagwinn2004-12-13ThisbookisdedicatedtoEdwardWilson,LudwigWittgenstein,MartinHeideggerandmyparentsPROLOGUETheprobeslidcautiouslytowardthefifthplanet.Allitssensorswereextendedtotheirfullest,sendingoutwaveafterwaveofcarefulelect...

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