"So why make the trip inside me?" I asked. "If the Balrog wants to play hero, why not teleport to Muta on its own? It could smother the killer with spores, the way it smothered Zoonau."
"Maybe the Balrog wouldn’t win a direct confrontation. Maybe it needs to land on Muta incognito."
"And I’m the Trojan horse?"
"That’s not necessarily…" But her words were drowned out by a thunderous crash over our heads. Li’s shuttle had arrived.
The rope walkways of Zoonau had lasted for millennia. Like chintah concrete, they weren’t nearly as simple as they looked — each rope was an amalgam of artificial fibers and microbes that could heal any fraying or decay. They could not, however, heal outright breakage… like the snapping and slicing caused by a several-ton shuttle coming straight down from the top of the dome.
The ropes weren’t the only casualties. They were tied to numerous supports: to buildings, to stanchions, to the dome itself. If a rope happened to be stronger than its end attachments, the attachments gave way first. Screw bolts got wrenched from the walls of skyscrapers, spilling chunks of chintah into the streets below. Pylons buckled and bent, or broke clean off and plunged earthward like spears. The glass of the dome resonated with pops and bangs and clatter. Occasionally, some cat’s cradle proved strong enough to hold the shuttle’s weight, at least temporarily; but Li just applied more downthrust, pressing the craft into the web of ropes until they collapsed under the strain. Panicked Cashlings ran for cover, while the more courageous (or foolhardy) called the newswires again. Dust and debris showered around us as rope ends whizzed past at high speed, slashing like bullwhips. Festina threw herself on top of Tut to protect him. I could only flatten facedown on the roof and hope I didn’t get slammed by some jagged piece of concrete.
My eyes were closed against flying dust. I covered my ears with my hands to block the roar of the shuttle’s engines. Wind buffeted around me. Yet I was still aware of exactly where the shuttle was. Not through vision, hearing, or the feel of disturbance in the air, but through sheer mental comprehension.
I just knew the shuttle’s position. Knew too where everything else was: Festina, Tut, nearby Cashlings, falling chintah. I didn’t sense these things through the chaos. I just knew.
And I knew more about those people and things than just their position. I could sense… I had no simple word for what I was perceiving, but it seemed like some kind of life force. An aura. I sensed the ordered, monastic community of plants and microbes inside the chintah. The chaotic labyrinth of Tut’s madness. The watery shallowness of the Cashlings. The avalanche karma of Festina Ramos, distorting the space around her like a black hole, so that the woman herself was almost invisible within.
I could sense the Balrog’s life force too. Inside me. The alien was filled with a powerful karma like Festina Ramos… but not an avalanche, not a black hole. A peaceful placid presence, undemanding, unyielding, neither hot nor cold, neither light nor dark, just there: inhabiting every part of my body like a calm and calming mist.
Or so it seemed… if I could trust this revelation. This sixth sense.
My people have long believed there are six senses: the usual five recognized by Westerners, plus the Faculty of Mind. Whenever I had to explain this concept to non-Buddhists, I’d mumble about the Mind’s "ability to extract meaning from raw perception." Putting things together. Making logical deductions. The Mind didn’t gather input per se, but processed input from the other senses and was therefore part of the sensory system. Yes, it was a sixth sense… sort of.
But suppose — at least for higher beings — the Mind really was a sense organ. Suppose it didn’t just process input, but could somehow accumulate input on its own. Unmediated perception. Could that have been why the ancients classified Mind as a sixth sense? And we moderns had invented weak arguments to explain away the old beliefs rather than admitting our blindness.
But now I could sense the world. I knew everything’s place and its nature. I also knew how I’d acquired this new mode of perception.
"Balrog," I said under my breath. "Please stop."
The radarlike awareness vanished immediately… leaving me with nothing but dust, wind, and an emptiness where the comprehension had been. The emptiness wasn’t painful — I didn’t feel blind and bereft, as if some part of me had been gouged away. I felt no craving to have the uncanny perception back. I was just aware of the absence. Like when you cut your hair, and for a while you’re cognizant of what’s missing.
"Is that how you do it?" I whispered to the Balrog. "Is that how you seduced Kaisho? How you think you’ll seduce me? You share a bit of your awareness… and then, like a perfect gentleman, you stop when you’re asked. But you make sure I know the offer is still open. A sixth sense that’s mine anytime I want, and all I have to say is please. Like a kiss hovering a millimeter from my lips — I just have to lean in and take it. Is that how you’ll make me let down my guard?"
No answer. But I remembered the way my Mind’s eye had perceived the Balrog’s life force: calm, peaceful, wise… like a Buddha. Exactly like a Buddha. As if the Balrog had knowingly portrayed itself in the guise I’d find most trustworthy.
Another aspect of the seduction. I was supposed to conceive of the Balrog not as a parasite, but as a saintly creature of pure enlightenment.
"Suppose I were a Christian," I said to the Balrog. "When I looked at you, would I see Christ? If I were a Hindu, would I see Ganesha? Or Krishna? Or Kali? And when you showed me Festina and Tut, did I really sense their inner selves? Or were you just repeating what I already knew about them, so I’d believe your mystic sixth sense could reveal hidden truths? Was it all just a trick to tempt me into inviting you back? To get me interested in taking another look?"
Still no answer. I didn’t expect one.
"Never again," I said. "Don’t do that to me, ever. I don’t believe what your sixth sense shows me, and I definitely don’t need it. Just leave me alone."
But I knew even then, I wouldn’t hold out forever. Forever was too long not to give in eventually. To take just another tiny peek.
The shuttle settled on the ziggurat’s roof. When I lifted my head, Festina was already standing, dusting chintah off her uniform. She looked down at me. "So. Did you arrange for the shuttle?"
"I said we might need immediate transport. I wanted to meet the shuttle at the nearest landing pad, but it’s being flown by a diplomat who doesn’t think other people’s laws apply to him."
"Oh," Festina said. "A dipshit. I know the type." She sighed. "Who is it? Anyone I should know?"
I reported what I knew about Li and Ubatu. I couldn’t recite their resumes, but I could sketch their personalities. (Inwardly, I wondered: what would their life forces look like?) After I’d finished, Festina asked for more details… and in the ensuing conversation, she invariably abbreviated "diplomats" to "dipshits." It proved she was an Explorer of the old school. For some reason, they all loved profanity and rough talk. Maybe to shock the more genteel navy personnel around them. I could never swear like that myself — I’d been raised with Bamar manners, which abhor harsh speech — but once I got used to it, Festina’s crudeness made me smile. Weren’t her words just another chant to scare away demons?