The Long Cosmos (22 page)

He shuddered.

Ben asked, ‘Are you cold?'

‘No. Call it existential angst.'

Ben grinned. ‘Just forget about it. The outside. Accept what you see, what you feel. We crossed by the pass above—'

‘Yes. I can remember. Kind of. I remember what went
before
.' The weeks of effort it had taken to get permission to access this simulation. ‘And I remember the hike – but the way I remember reading an entry in somebody else's diary. I don't recall making any particular individual step. Even the last step I took, before standing right here . . .'

‘Don't push it, Nelson,' Ben said. ‘Your memories of the trek are mostly mock-ups. No deeper than they need to be.'

Nineteen years old, Ben was calm, strong, assured. His accent was a kind of backwoods twang, incongruous for a young man so obviously well educated, Nelson thought. But then, with his adopted parents, Lobsang and Agnes, he had spent his early years in a backwoods community.

‘So this place is—'

‘Not far from Ladakh. West Tibet. Now within the boundaries of India, and preserved from the worst of the Chinese occupation of the country as a result. And then, when Step Day came, this was the focus of the main migrations out of the Datum, as Buddhist communities gathered here and spread out into empty footprints of the Himalayas – empty of the Chinese, that is. What you see is a recreation of the Datum community as it was pre-Yellowstone, pre-Step Day. Lobsang asked for that specifically.'

‘Yes. Lobsang. Who we came to see.'

Ben, his face round-cheeked inside his fleecy hood, glanced at him with faint concern. ‘It was your idea, Nelson. You wanted to come here—'

‘I remember now. I'm sorry.'

‘Don't be. Nelson, this kind of memory muddle isn't particularly uncommon. It's just that there have to be horizons within a sim like this. Cut-offs to the memory, as well as physical boundaries. A sim can't be infinite, or infinitely detailed; you have to start a sim
somewhere
, from some base in space and time. And at least if we come walking down from the hills like this, we will be fully consistent with the sim itself. We shouldn't give Lobsang himself any cognitive problems.'

‘Then let's get on with it.'

But Ben hesitated. ‘You're sure it's necessary to do this? Lobsang has been living a normal life, growing up in here for years.'

Nelson smiled. ‘“Normal” for a Tibetan-Buddhist novice monk?'

Ben sighed. ‘I don't exactly monitor him daily. My studies at Valhalla keep me far away. I have kept a closer eye on him recently, since my mother's health began to fail . . . He's going to have to come to terms with her death; that's one issue. Also, with Lobsang, there have recently been signs of some cognitive disturbance. As if he is distracted by something. Maybe that comes from within himself, or maybe from outside this artificial environment.' He glanced at Nelson. ‘Maybe he knew you were coming.'

‘Or maybe whatever caused – the reason I'm here – has disturbed Lobsang too.'

‘Come, it's not far now. I'm sure the villagers will make us welcome, and we can warm up. They're always kind to strangers – well, you have to be, in a place like this . . .'

They wandered down into the village, side by side. The only vehicles on the track they followed were bicycles and a couple of hand-drawn carts.

The place seemed small and cramped to Nelson, a huddle of single-storey houses. There were some modern buildings, constructed of breeze blocks and corrugated-iron panels, but most of the houses and communal places were built of old, worn stone. Nelson imagined the labour as each block had been cut and hauled down from the mountain; once brought here the stone would be used and reused, over and over. He saw cattle penned behind a wall on the outskirts of the village, big beasts with thick black hair and curling horns and bells around their necks. And as they entered the village itself there were more animals, dogs, goats with thick coats of hair, seeming to wander at will.

The people peered at them curiously, their expressions not unfriendly.

They were shorter than Nelson, though he was tall anyhow. Men and women alike, they looked rounded in their heavy coats. But many of them wore modern western gear – quilted jackets and lace-up boots and Day Glo mittens. There were few children around, but then this was a working day, a school day; the adults would be at work in the fields or the nearby towns, the children in their classes. The younger women and men struck him as very handsome, and the older people seemed to have faces as hard and leathery as old saddlebags.

Nelson paused at a prayer wheel, an upright cylinder half as tall as he was, and elaborately decorated. ‘Almost pointlessly beautiful,' he murmured to Ben.

As they stood there, a very old man came up and grasped Nelson's hand and shook it vigorously, gabbling something Nelson couldn't understand. Nelson just smiled back.

Now a man who looked about sixty approached the visitors. He wore what looked like an elaborately coloured robe under his top coat. ‘Mr Azikiwe, Mr Abrahams? My name is Padmasambhava. Please call me Padma – Lobsang always did. We corresponded, Mr Abrahams—'

‘Call me Ben.'

‘And of course, Mr Azikiwe, we met at Lobsang's funeral – oh, twenty-five years ago? Strange to think of that, in the circumstances.'

Nelson said, ‘That's what being a friend of Lobsang does to you. I remember it well. And I'd shake your hand if this old fellow ever lets go of me!'

‘He's one of the oldest residents of the village. He's guessing you are either African or American. Either way he says you're welcome here, as a friend and supporter of the Dalai Lama. He is ninety-two years old. And, in case you're wondering, his avatar is an authentic replica of the real thing, his physical body.' He said more quietly, ‘About five per cent of the people you see are avatars of living people. The rest are computer-generated simulated personalities. Granted it's often hard to tell who's who. And I, in fact, am rather more elderly in reality than the figure you see before you.'

‘In that case I'm impressed. This fellow's pretty limber.'

‘He prostrates himself before the Buddha in his family shrine one hundred times a day, every day. Excellent way to keep the back supple. Please, come into my home, get out of the cold for a moment . . .'

Padma's home was a small house at the edge of the village. The walls were decorated with colourful hangings, the floor with a thick carpet. There was an elaborate shrine against one wall, neat, symmetrical, brightly coloured with gilt frames around red panels; the shelves were crowded with tokens and small Buddha statues.

‘Please, sit. I would offer you tea, but Lobsang is not far away. I'm sure you would prefer to meet him soon.'

‘It's why we came,' Nelson said.

‘I should say that this is actually a home of my cousin's, not my own. I am abbot of a monastery in Ladakh – that is, in the real world, the Datum. But, as you know, I have long been a close friend of Lobsang. I have worked with him regarding spiritual matters for many years. When he decided to, ah, immerse himself in this environment, in the latest iteration of his existence, I was happy to devote a proportion of my time to accompany him, to be his spiritual guide as he grows up in this place.'

Nelson imagined he had as close a relationship with Lobsang as anybody in his ‘family' – by which he meant Agnes, Ben, Selena, and of course Joshua Valienté. For all Lobsang's claims about his origin – that he was the soul of a Tibetan motorcycle repairman reincarnated into a gel-substrate supercomputer – none of them, not even Nelson, had ever explored the full implications of that idea. Yet something in that exotic background clawed him back, over and over. And here he was again.

Ben said, ‘That's very kind of you, sir.'

Padma regarded him. ‘And it is forgiving of you, his adopted son, not to feel resentment at this absenting of himself from your own life. Lobsang has chosen to start again, in a sense, to grow up immersed in the traditions of his ancestral faith. You are so young yourself. Physically and spiritually Lobsang has made himself younger than you. How strange!'

Ben shrugged. ‘I always knew my parents were – different. Even before they told me the truth about their own nature. Even before they told me I was adopted, in fact.'

And even before alien planet-eating monsters showed up in his home town of New Springfield, Nelson thought.

‘Ah,' said Padma. ‘One can never fool a child.'

‘But I was an orphan – who knows what would have become of me if not for Agnes and Lobsang? I guess I can forgive them for being
odd.
They were what they were.'

‘You are wise for such a young man. And as for the money that is being expended on this place . . .'

Nelson grinned. ‘I asked around at transEarth. This simulation is consuming the GDP of a small nation.'

‘But Lobsang can afford it. And you are certain that you must disturb him now?'

Nelson glanced at Ben. ‘Ben asked me the same question. I'm afraid so. He's the only one I can turn to . . . Put it this way,
he
would never forgive me if I didn't call on him. But I have a feeling that what's going on out there is serious enough that he's going to have to know anyhow, sooner or later. He is, after all, Lobsang.'

There was a shrill whistle, the sound of boys cheering.

‘Ah.' Padma smiled. ‘Sounds as if somebody has scored a goal.' ‘A goal?'

‘It may be an opportune time to intervene. If you'll follow me . . .'

In a rough field behind the village, under the looming mountain, teams of novice monks were playing soccer, a half-dozen per side. All the boys, aged somewhere between twelve and fifteen, were wearing purple robes and had shaven heads. One side was celebrating a goal, while the other was riven by arguments.

‘Now I've seen everything,' Ben said. ‘Novice monks playing football.'

Padma smiled indulgently. ‘Young men cannot study thousand-year-old manuscripts about the nature of consciousness all the time.'

‘What baffles me,' Nelson said, ‘is how they can tell who's on which team.'

Padma laughed, a big booming laugh that seemed to echo from the mountain.

Now Nelson heard what looked like the captain of the losing side berating his midfielders. ‘Look – I know it's not your position, but when the defender goes forward you drop back to cover him. You back him up. You always need back-up!'

Ben and Nelson exchanged a glance. Nelson said dryly, ‘I think we found him.'

Padma beckoned the losing captain over. He came at a jog, young, healthy, breath wreathing pink cheeks. But he stared at Nelson and Ben, and slowed, and his face fell. Nelson felt his heart break, just a little. Already the Himalayan dream was over for this boy.

‘I know these people, master,' the boy said to Padma.

‘You do. This man is your friend – your good friend of many years. And this fellow – well,
he's your son
. Your adopted son.'

The boy's face worked. ‘Why have they come?'

Nelson stepped forward. ‘It's my fault. Blame me. I persuaded Ben to bring me here. I felt it was important.'

‘They need you out there,' Padma said gently.

‘I remember.' The boy pressed his fists to his eyes. ‘I remember! Why did you come?' He was weeping, Nelson saw with a shock. The boy crumpled, squatting, the tears leaking from behind his clenched fists.

Padma knelt down with him, stiffly. ‘Remember, Lobsang. Remember your teaching, the texts.
To realize one's true nature is a liberation.
'

‘We're only one goal down! Oh, why did you come? Why?'

30

A
S THE WINTER
turned to spring, the troll band seemed content to hang around the rock bluff where they'd brought Joshua.

As he got on with his convalescence, and waited for a pickup that might or might not come, Joshua had re-established his own camp at the bluff. He'd set up his small tent, with his aerogel roll-out mattress and his sleeping bag. His radio still worked, pumping out its general-purpose beacon signal:
Here I am.
And, as a second thought, he spread out the remnants of the spacesuit-silver survival blanket across the top of the bluff so it could be seen from the air, just as Bill Chambers had suggested – at least, when Sancho wasn't borrowing it. Of course you had to be wary of what kind of attention you attracted to yourself; he hadn't forgotten those big pterosaurs. But he figured that at this point the advantage he could gain from being picked up by some Good Samaritan and returned to the human worlds far outweighed the risk of danger. And besides, the trolls were here with him. They'd provide some warning of, if not protection from, aerial threats.

In the meantime, he lived among trolls.

Their hunting was a beautiful process to watch. Scouts panned out across the landscape, and indeed across the worlds, returning with information about threats, storms, or sources of food and water and shelter, and they would sing out that information to the group. More scouts would go out to check up on these reports, and then return to sing out their findings. Very quickly the band would converge on a solution – to Joshua's ears it was like a scratch choir suddenly and triumphantly bursting into a perfect rendition of the ‘Ode to Joy' – and off they would go, in search of goodies. This was the essence of troll collective intelligence, Lobsang had come to believe, adapted for an existence spread across a sheaf of stepwise worlds. A troll band was like a bee swarm, with scouts returning from stepwise worlds to dance out news of food or threats to the main group.

Now he had time to watch them more closely – and maybe for longer, in one continuous period, than anybody out in the wild before, he mused – Joshua thought he spotted more novel aspects of their behaviour. Such as when scouts he didn't recognize showed up – granted it was hard to be sure with all that hair who was who anyhow – and they would join with scouts from ‘his' band, and maybe others, and go into a different kind of gathering, hooting, jumping and floor-slapping, even mock-wrestling at times, dozens of trolls from several different bands all over each other.