David Zindell - The Broken God

In truth, one of Danlo’s ancestors had illegally carked the family chromosomes, hence his unique, hereditary black and red hair. But it was too dark in the room for Drisana to make out the spray of red in his hair; it was too dark and her eyes were too old and weak. She must have seen clearly enough, however, that he possessed none of the grosser bodily deformations of the fully carked races: blue skin, an extra thumb, feathers, fur or the ability to breathe water instead of air.

‘Ah oh, I can’t tell you where he comes from,’ Old Father whistled.

‘It’s a secret? I love secrets, you know.’

‘It’s not for me to tell you.’

‘Well, the Fravashi are famous for their secrets, it’s said.’ Drisana drank her wine and got up to pour herself another glass. ‘To imprint the Language – nothing could be easier. It’s so easy, I hesitate to ask for payment.’

Old Father closed one eye and slowly whistled, ‘I was hoping to make the usual payment.’

‘I’d like that,’ Drisana told him.

The usual payment was a song drug. Old Father agreed to sing for Drisana after their business was concluded. The Fravashi have the sweetest, most exquisite of voices, and to humans, their otherworldly songs are as intoxicating as any drug. Neither of them approved of money, and they disdained its use. Old Father, of course, as a Fravashi believed that money was silly. And Drisana, while she had defected from the Order years ago, still clung to most of her old values. Money was evil, and young minds must be nurtured, no matter the cost. She loved bestowing new languages on the young, but she refused to imprint wolf consciousness onto a man, or transform a shy girl into a libertine, or perform the thousand other personality alterations and memory changes so popular among the bored and desperate. And so, her shop usually remained empty.

Drisana poured herself a third glass of wine, this time from a different decanter. Danlo smiled and watched her take a sip.

‘It’s rude,’ she whistled to Old Father, ‘how very rude it is to speak in front of him in a language he doesn’t understand. In a language no one understands. When we begin the imprinting, I shall have to speak to him. I suppose you’ll have to translate. You do speak the boy’s language, don’t you?’

Old Father, who was not permitted to lie, said, ‘It’s so. Of course I do. Oh ho, but if I translate, you might recognize the language and thus determine his origins.’

Drisana stood near Danlo and rested her hand on his shoulder. Beneath the loose skin on the back of her hand, the veins twisted like thin, blue worms. ‘Such a secret you’re making of him! If you need to keep your secret, of course you must keep it. But I won’t make an imprinting unless I can talk to him.’

‘Perhaps you could speak to him in Moksha.’

‘Oh? Is he fluent?’

‘Nearly so.’

‘I’m afraid that won’t be sufficient, then.’

Old Father closed both eyes for an uncomfortably long time. He stopped whistling and started to hum. At last he looked at Danlo and said, ‘ Lo ti dirasa , ah ha, I must tell you Drisana’s words as she speaks them.’

‘He speaks Alaloi!’ Drisana said.

‘You recognize the language?’

‘How could I not?’ Drisana, who spoke five hundred and twenty-three languages, was suddenly excited, so excited that she neglected to transpose her words into the Alaloi tongue. She began talking about the most important event that had happened in the Order since Neverness was founded. ‘It’s been four years since Mallory Ringess ascended to heaven, or whatever it is that his followers believe. I think the Lord Pilot left the City on another journey – the universe is immense, is it not? Who can say if he’ll ever return? Well, everyone is saying he became a god and will never return. One thing is certainly known: the Ringess once imprinted Alaloi – he was a student of bizarre and ancient languages. And now it seems that everyone wants to do the same, as young Danlo has obviously done. It’s really worship , you know. Emulation, the power of apotheosis. As if learning a particular language could bring one closer to the godhead.’

Old Father was obliged to translate this, and he did so. However, he seemed to be having trouble speaking. Alternately opening and shutting each eye, he sighed and paused and started and stopped. Danlo thought that he must be three quarters asleep, so long did it take him to get the words out.

‘Mallory Ringess was a pilot, yes?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Old Father said. ‘A brilliant pilot. He became the Lord Pilot of the Order, and then, at the end, the Lord of the Order itself. Many people hated him; some loved him. There was something about him, the way he compelled people’s love or hate. Twelve years ago, there was schism in the Order. And war. And the Ringess was a warrior, among other things. So, it’s so: a very angry, violent man. And secretive, and cruel, and vain. Oh ho, but he was also something else. An unusually complex man. A kind man. And noble, and fated, and compassionate. He loved truth – even his enemies would admit that. He devoted his life to a quest for the Elder Eddas, the secret of the gods. Some say he found this secret and became a god; some say he failed and left the City in disgrace.’

Danlo thought about this for a while. Drisana’s tea room was a good place for reflection. In some ways it reminded him of a snow hut’s interior: clean, stark and lit by natural flames. High on the granite walls, atop little wooden shelves, were ten silver candelabra. All around the room, candles burned with a familiar yellow light. The smells of hot wax and carbon mingled with pine and the sickly sweet fetor which old people exude when they are almost ready to go over. Danlo traced his finger along his forehead and wondered aloud, ‘Is it possible for a man to become a god? For a civilized man? How can such a thing be possible? Men are men; why should a man want to be a god?’

He wondered if Old Father was lying or speaking metaphorically. Or perhaps, in such a shaida place as a city, a man really could aspire to godhood. Danlo really didn’t understand civilized people, nor could he conceive of the kinds of gods they might become. And then he had a startling thought: it wasn’t necessary for him to understand everything in order to accept Drisana’s and Old Father’s story. As his first conscious act as an asarya, he would say ‘yes’ to this fantastic notion of a man’s journey godward, at least until he could see things more clearly.

He turned to Old Father and asked, ‘What are the Elder Eddas?’

‘Oh ho, the Elder Eddas! No one is quite sure. Once there was a race of gods, the Ieldra, once, once, three million years ago. When human beings lived in trees; when the Fravashi still warred with each other, clan against clan. The Ieldra, it’s said, discovered the secret of the universe. The Philosopher’s Stone. The One Tree, the Burning Bush, Pure Information, the Pearl of Great Price. Aha, the River of Light, the Ring of Scutarix, the Universal Program, the Eschaton. And the Golden Key, the Word, even the Wheel of Law. So, it’s so: the Elder Eddas. God. In a way, the Ieldra became God, or became as one with God. It’s said that they carked their minds – ah, ah, their very consciousness – into the singularity at the galaxy’s core. Into a spinning black hole. But before their final evolution, a gift. A bequest from the Ieldra to their chosen successors. Not the Fravashi, it’s said. Not the Darghinni. Nor the Scutari, nor the Farahim, nor the Friends of Man. It’s said that the Ieldra carked their secrets into human beings only; long ago they encoded the Elder Eddas into the human genome. Wisdom, madness, infinite knowledge, racial memory – all of these and more. It’s thought that certain segments of human DNA code the Elder Eddas as pure memory. And so, inside all human beings, a way of becoming gods.’