Aristoi, page 6
He used a glyph for rose, a radical for redden, modalities for medicine and music and pleasure and caring . . . He wanted to evoke her precisely, create a poem in glyph form.
He became aware that Spring Plum had finished the wushu form, that his body was poised in salutation position, swords heavy in his arms. Gabriel had his reno analyze his bodily state. He concluded he’d exercised enough, and he summoned Kouros to perform cool-down exercises. The Kouros daimon was a child, carefree and happy, innocent of consequence— skipping about the sward and gardens during the cooldown period was something Kouros would find interesting.
He buried himself in the creating the hieroglyph.
*
By the time he finished the cool-down period he thought he had finished the seal. He bathed and dressed and had breakfast delivered to Spring Plum’s room, where there was a graceful rosewood dining table, and in a matching cabinet a porcelain service rimmed with silver and painted with white plum blossoms. Spring Plum possessed an intent fascination for biological detail: the dark silk wall hangings were covered with exactingly-rendered flora, petals, stigmata, anthers, and beaded, glowing droplets of dew.
Clancy arrived at the door. Gabriel embraced her and kissed her hello, then led her to the buffet. There was enough food to feed a dozen guests. Clancy took coffee, a scone, and jam, and sat curled in a chair covered in stitched dogwood blossoms. Gabriel took a plate of fruit and sat by her side.
She cocked an ear at the music. “Tien Jiang Chun.”
“Yes.”
“I played it years ago on Darkbloom. In a recital, at university. Accompanying a friend, who sang Li Jingchao’s words.”
Gabriel’s reno sifted gently through Clancy’s biography. “You play piano, flute, persephone.”
“The first poorly, due to a lack of time for practice. The second with a bit too much restraint. The third too cleverly, because modern instruments encourage that.”
“Do you compose?”
“No.”
“You should. You’re bound to find a daimon that will help you.”
“I would be mediocre.” She sipped coffee. “I’m an outstanding physician and surgeon, however, and a damn good geneticist.” There was defensiveness in her tone.
“I know,” gently. He took her hand and kissed it.
“Marcus,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Is it ended between you?”
“‘How am I fallen from myself, for a long time now I have not seen the Prince of Chang in my dreams.’” He smiled. “I’m building him a house.”
“A house? An estate, you mean.”
“An estate, then. And why not? With a stunning view, and a large nursery, and room for all the playthings and gadgets he likes to build.”
“Don’t build me such a place, when the time comes.”
He sensed the tension in her forearm. He kissed her hand again. “Not if you don’t want one, Blushing Rose. But architecture is one of my skills— I hate not to indulge it.”
She smiled. “Build me a research clinic if you like. On an asteroid, where I can work with nano.”
Gabriel was pleased to discover this hidden thread of ambition.
“Tell me where you want it, and what you want in it, and it’s yours. Now. It doesn’t have to be a parting gift.”
Clancy blinked at him. “Sometimes I forget that you can do that. Wave your hand, and it’s done. As easily as if you were in the oneirochronon.”
“It takes a little more effort than that.”
“But still. It doesn’t cost you anything. Does it?”
“Why should it?” He smiled, took a knife, began to peel a hothouse peach. “I like pleasing people. I have the power to do it. Why shouldn’t I indulge myself in harmless benevolence?”
She thought about it, then shrugged. “Whyever not?”
Another chord chimed briefly. Clancy tilted her head. “I’ve told Rabjoms.”
“I hope it went well.”
“I think he’s a bit . . . overwhelmed.” She gave a tight little smile. “So am I, really. Rabjoms doesn’t want to resist— part of it’s the conditioning, okay, but— ” There was an uncertain flutter in her eyes. “Well, I don’t want to resist either.”
Gabriel left his chair, sat crosslegged before her, took her feet into his lap. “I’m pleased, Blushing Rose.”
Her look turned uncertain. “Should I move into the Residence? Do you want me to?”
“I would be pleased to have you near me. The Carnation Suite is open, and its decor would suit your coloring very well.”
“I’ll move, then.”
“I’ve already taken the liberty of designing you an oneirochronic seal that will grant you access to the secure areas and the private passages and galleries in the Residence. I’ve put it in your message box, and instructed the Residence to open its sealed areas to you.”
There was a glimmer of interest in her eyes. “There are secret passages in the Residence?”
“Not secret. Just private. If you want to go somewhere and not have to meet people.” He smiled at her. “I find it useful.”
She gazed at her plate for a moment, then down at him. “Disturber? Can you tell me why I feel sad?”
Gabriel could not. “How can I make you happy?” he said.
She gave a thin smile. “I should return to work.”
“If that’s what you wish. But I can still declare that planetary holiday.”
Her smile broadened. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “some other time.”
Chapter Three
LULU: You bring them in, you bring them in
You pierce their skin, you pierce their skin
They moan and sigh as you suck them dry
And that is how you win.
LOUISE: (refrain) Bring me a drink!
Gabriel was weary after the reception. It was early morning in Persepolis, but early evening here: looking down from Pyrrho he could see lights winking on across the continent below. As he stepped from the Pyrrho into his shuttlecraft he sat in the copilot’s seat and gestured to his pilot, White Bear.
“Take the gravity drive,” he said. “Try not to destroy the planet.”
“I’ll do my best, Aristos,” White Bear laughed. He was a man who justified his nickname— burly, bearded, pale-skinned, pale blond hair— and Gabriel could see he was pleased. Gabriel enjoyed doing his own piloting and White Bear almost never got to perform the task he was hired for.
Gabriel closed his eyes as White Bear’s fingers began to play over the controls for the specially-licensed gravity/inertial generator. White Bear spoke to traffic control through his reno, thus sparing Gabriel half of a dull conversation. The shuttle, in complete silence, detached itself from the Pyrrho and began to drop toward the atmosphere.
Speculations on Cressida’s conspiracy, whatever it was, floated through Gabriel’s head. He didn’t want to think about it and instead told his reno to let him look through his mailbox.
Floating up first came a high-priority message from his mother. He made note of it and did not reply.
There was Rubens’ request for an audience. Gabriel scheduled it for early the next morning, then sent a note about it to Quiller, his lean, beak-nosed secretary.
Other messages passed before his view. Administrators requested clarifications, guidance, or sought to pass responsibility upward. Some fawned, some flattered, some expressed bewilderment. He preferred the last to the first two. But the fawning and flattery was, he’d discovered, part of the job— the Demos never seemed to realize that their flattery meant little to an Aristos. The work itself was all routine: he dealt with it quickly and impressed on his people, yet again, that he didn’t want to deal with trivialities.
Next was a request, from an orchestra director on Thanatogenes off in Ariste Dorothy’s domaine, to perform some of Gabriel’s Music for the Eye. Gabriel absorbed the request and wondered. Music for the Eye had been intended as closet music for score-readers— never intended to be performed, just appreciated as a piece of written amusement, full of the sort of theoretical jokes and ideational cleverness that could only be appreciated by those trained to read a score— it was an intellectual exercise, an abstraction of music that bore the same resemblance to “real” music as a chess problem bore to real chess.
The orchestra director, it seemed, thought otherwise— he made a plausible-sounding case to the effect that actually playing the music would be instructive, and he wanted to provide a way of viewing the score through the oneirochronon simultaneous with the playing of the music.
What the hell. Let it be done, whatever good it would do. Gabriel gave his permission, with the proviso that it be made clear to the audience that the music had not ever been intended to be presented this way.
The craft swayed as the atmosphere tugged at it. Butterflies danced in Gabriel’s belly.
He realized he was putting off calling his mother. He might as well get it over with.
Therápon ex-Hextarchon Vashti was one of Gabriel’s primary parents— legally speaking, he had six, but shared genes with only the two primaries. She had stabilized her age in her early twenties, several years younger than that of her son. At his decantation Gabriel had supposedly looked like Vashti-as-a-young-girl, but both had altered their appearance since childhood and any resemblance had long been obscured.
Vashti (skiagénos-image blossoming in Gabriel’s mind) possessed sharp, searching eyes, fine clear skin fashionably bronzed by melanin supplements, lofty winged brows intended to create an air of mystery, and whiteblonde hair braided and piled high atop her crown. Her long hairpins and jeweled clasps bore religious symbols— mandalas, crescents, swastikas, Gabriel’s own Eye-of-Thoth. Since her retirement a dozen years ago she had devoted herself to managing Gabriel’s official cult.
“Good evening,” Gabriel said. “Or should I say, Hail, Vashti Geneteira? I hope this is not a bad time.”
“It’s never a bad time for the Geneteira to be visited by the Kouros Athánatos, her divine offspring.”
Meaning, Gabriel assumed, she was in public. Her body, wherever it was, would be standing in rapt attention to emanations of the divine, in the company (he presumed) of awed worshipers.
He’d bet anything she’d said that last aloud, just so everyone would know she was receiving a visitation.
As if billions didn’t communicate through the oneirochronon every passing second.
Gabriel shrugged. “Anything I can do to enhance the mystique.”
The skiagénos of Vashti’s face raised its lofty eyebrows. “Come now. It’s my job to take this seriously.”
“It isn’t mine.”
“I’m afraid you have little choice, Kouros. Not any more.” She allowed her image to give a cold little oneirochronic smile. “Attendance is up, by the way.”
Gabriel knew that he had let himself in for a certain amount of ridicule when he decided to allow himself to be worshiped. In the end he decided that the precedent of actually forbidding a religion was more distasteful than being plagued by the devout, and he allowed the original organizer, a Demotic woman named Diamond, to organize his faith, all the while trying to make it clear to everyone that it was all her idea.
The Demos, Gabriel conceded, desired gods to worship. And, he had to admit, he made a more pleasant god than many he could name.
To make certain that his worshipers didn’t make him more ridiculous than absolutely necessary, Gabriel had strictly supervised the unimaginatively-named Church of the New Thoth. Gabriel made certain that any clergy had genuine credentials as therapists and counselors, and that any spare cash was to be donated to worthwhile efforts, chiefly schools of architecture, music, and design.
Though Diamond had not been pleased by these conditions— Gabriel guessed she had other plans entirely, in which she would herself be worshiped as Gabriel’s prophet— the result had been a magnificent series of temples and cathedrals in which some very good sacred music was played. Gabriel hoped that the music would be remembered long after his cult had faded.
“Attendance is up?” Gabriel said. “Perhaps it’s the choir. I think the new director has improved it.”
Vashti slowly shook her head. “I’m afraid you’re a god, dear one. Better get used to it. You make things happen. You can intervene to make ordinary lives better.”
“How often do I do it? I grant— what?— a few petitions a month?”
“Your mystic interventions are rather more frequent, dear. I hear of miracles every week.”
Gabriel managed to avoid wincing. “I hope my fellow Aristoi don’t hear it.”
“They will if they have an interest. Nothing we do is secret.”
“Thanks to the restrictions I put on the church.”
The skiagénos nodded graciously. “Thanks to you. The divine will of our Kouros is all-important to us.”
She’d probably said that last aloud as well, so her followers would hear. She was, he had to admit, very good at this.
Much better than Diamond had been. Vashti’s retirement from her administrative duties in Pan Wengong’s domaine— despite her ferocious ambition, or perhaps because of it, she’d never risen above Hextarchon— had provided an opportunity for Gabriel to set the Mother of Godhead over the church’s founder in the hierarchy. Diamond had assumed that Vashti would take only a ceremonial role, but Gabriel knew his mother better than that. Within weeks Diamond, thoroughly bested, set off on missionary work and never returned.
Vashti had never, before or since, had any doubts whether or not she wanted to be worshiped.
“I believe you called me?” Gabriel asked. “Was there any particular message?”
“Ah. I forgot. The Rites of Inanna are next week. Will you be attending in person?”
“I don’t believe so. Intoxication and random copulation—”
“—Compose a necessary and life-enhancing celebration of the fertility principle.” She smiled at him. “That’s why I invented the rite.”
Gabriel sighed. “Have a nice time, mom.”
“Perhaps the rites are more suitable for the Geneteira, after all. Though you did just say you’d do anything to enhance the mystique.”
“I was not serious. As you know.”
“Could you send a daimon?”
“I will probably be dealing with Graduation.”
“There’s sure to be at least one interested in attending. We’ve got a robot puppet body he could inhabit— the best, quite lifelike.”
“A non-fertile one, I hope?”
“Whatever you wish, omniscient one.”
Any children born as a result of the orgies were considered, for religious if not legal purposes, Gabriel’s own offspring. Women organized their fertility around the celebrations, and some lived ever in hope that Gabriel would attend in person and bless them with his divine essence.
He had attended once— Vashti had talked him into it— and since felt disinclined to return. He preferred sex more spontaneous, and his partners either less intimidated, less worshipful, or less drunk.
“Consult your daimones, then. There will also be the usual requiem service conducted at the Pater’s tomb in two days.”
“I won’t be there.” Firmly.
Vashti’s brows narrowed. “The service is really quite lovely. I don’t understand—”
“My private mourning for my father will not become a public spectacle,” Gabriel said, “no matter how tasteful.”
Vashti sighed. “Very well. Whatever you desire, Athánatos Kouros.”
“Do you really think you should play it up as much as you do? You’d been separated for almost sixty years when he died.”
“We are forever united,” serenely smiling, “by the glory and divinity of our offspring.”
Gabriel gave a hard look at Vashti’s skiagénos. The virtual façade was impenetrable. “Sometimes,” he said, “I can’t tell quite when you’re being serious.”
The smile widened minutely. “And how is pretty Marcus these days?”
“Pregnant.”
“Congratulations. I’m sure he will be a fine father to your child— ”
“Our child.”
“Your little godlet. But couldn’t you have waited till the Rites of Innana?”
“No.”
Vashti’s visage showed mild disappointment. “You might try to make my job easier now and again, you know. Now I’ll have to have a revelation to the effect that there will be an increase in the divine family.” The skiagénos assumed a hopeful cast. “You’ll bring the child for baptism?”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“Ah.” Vashti smiled. “I’ll speak to Marcus about it, then.”
“Not in the next few days, if you please. He’s still adjusting to his condition.”
Vashti assumed a searching look. “He’s lasted a while, your Marcus. Longer than most, at any rate.”
“He has a kind heart.”
An eloquently raised eyebrow dismissed the whole notion of kindheartedness. “It’s you who are kindhearted,” she said. “Too kindhearted, if you ask me. That palace you’re building him . . . ”
“Standing Wave’s not a palace.”
“It’s a mansion on an estate. ”
“It’s the house your grandchild will live in.”
That stopped her. “Well,” grudgingly, “you’re the Aristos.”
“On the contrary,” Gabriel smiled, “I’m the god.”
*
Gabriel ended his conversation with Vashti and opened his eyes. The precise flat grid of the Residence landing field, glowing under spotlights, spread out on the other side of the viewscreen. White Bear had landed, noiselessly and without a jounce, while Gabriel was concentrating on the oneirochronon.
“Thank you,” Gabriel told him, a bit surprised, and walked toward the Residence while querying its reno for Clancy’s location.
Clancy, Gabriel was told, was at the hospital in Labdakos, keeping watch over an emergency case— a six-year-old child with a brain infection.
