"You should go now," I told Ubatu. "I want you to go. Get out."
"All right," Ubatu said. "For now. You still have too much personal control to let the Balrog speak to me. But that will change, won’t it? The Balrog will slowly edge you out. Then I’ll find ways to win it over."
"Beheading a chicken and writing with its blood?"
"We’ll see."
She stood abruptly, a tall woman looming above me… and suddenly her black-on-black outfit with abstract silver symbols embedded in the flesh of her arms and belly struck me as much more than they’d originally seemed. I’d thought it was all just fashionable streetwear; but really she’d traded her navy gold for another uniform. An Ifa-Vodun priestess? A priestess who hoped the Balrog would expunge my Youn Suu personality, thereby becoming pure loa?
"Leave," I said.
"I’m leaving. Good night."
She made an odd gesture as she went through the door. I didn’t want to guess its significance.
CHAPTER 7
Anatta [Sanskrit]: The precept that no one has a permanent self. Other religions may believe in an "immortal soul," but the Buddha rejected this idea. He contended we are all composite beings, made of flesh, thoughts, emotions, etc., and all these change over time. There is no component one can point to and say, "That is my unchanging core."
In the next half hour, I wrote a BE ADVISED memo about Ifa-Vodun and put it in Pistachio’s dispatch queue for eventual delivery to Explorer Corps HQ. Explorers across the galaxy used such memos to warn each other of possible risks — not just physical threats but anything that might make the job more perverse. Soon, Explorers everywhere would be on the watch for Ifa-Vodun and similar activities. It wouldn’t take long for our corps to gather a dossier of useful information… and for teachers at the Academy to begin brainstorming what they ought to tell cadets.
Happy that I’d accomplished something useful on an otherwise bad day, I went to bed. Where I couldn’t sleep. So I lay on my back, staring up into blackness. A starship cabin with no lights on is as dark as the deepest cave.
The room began to feel close and airless, as if the ventilators had stopped working. I was wearing the light nightie I usually slept in, but after a while, I couldn’t stand the straitjacket feel of it against me. I fought my way out of the nightie’s clutch, almost tearing it in my haste; then I balled it up and threw it into the darkness. The cloth had been soaked with perspiration.
I lay back down, this time on top of the sheets and covers, sprawling wide to radiate the suffocating heat that seemed to pour off me. Burning up. Fever — I was dripping with fever. My ears began to ring. Something swam inside my head, but I didn’t know what it was.
It occurred to me my immune system had finally realized I’d been invaded by foreign organisms. This fever was the result. Perhaps I should call for a doctor — just whispering "Help!" would tell the ship’s computer to start emergency procedures. But I couldn’t bear the thought of being found naked and slick with sweat. Drenched. Sodden. Festina would see me, and Tut would see me, and Ubatu might smear me with pig’s blood…
The blackness was pierced by two spots of crimson. They shone from the tops of my feet — bright red spores glowing from where I’d been bitten.
Slowly, I sat up: propped damp pillows behind me so I could flop back against the bed’s headboard with my legs spread in front of me. Sweat trickled and rolled down my flesh. My weeping cheek was so runny, fluid streamed down my jawline and dripped off my chin onto my breasts. The splashes felt simmering hot.
In a while, I thought, I’ll be delirious. Things had already lost their sense of reality. I moved my feet, and the red dots moved too… like tiny spotlights, bright enough to show the outlines of my legs in the pitch-dark room. The sight was numbly mesmerizing. I moved my feet again, watching shadows shift across me. Reflections of the red dots glistened in the sweat on my thighs. I looked at the dots with befuddled wonderment, as if they were miraculous phenomena… but despite my growing dizziness, I knew why the dots had come.
No more strength in my limbs. Limp. Sinking into the bed. My eyes slumped shut, exhausted from the effort of staying open… but it seemed as if I could still see the two red dots glowing in an otherwise black universe.
"All right, Balrog," I mumbled. "Talk to me."
A vision. Bodyless, floating. Over an infinite row of Youn Suu’s, each inside some prison. Prisons shaped like eggs with barred windows, or glass-walled coffins, or golden castles with jewel-speckled towers but not a single door.
Many of the Youn Suu’s were dead. Some freshly dead and cooling. Some well into putrefaction. Some gone dry and withered. The ones in worst condition were children. Five-year-old Youn Suu’s who hadn’t looked both ways crossing the street… two-year-olds who’d put the wrong things in their mouths… eight-year-olds who didn’t notice the infected mosquito land on their arms.
Corpses now. Small, shriveled corpses. In some, the skin was intact enough to show the blemished cheek; in others, decay or some ravaging cause of death had erased all sign of disfigurement.
Every cadaver had a shining crimson dot in the middle of each foot.
So did the living Youn Suu’s. All nineteen years old. A few maimed or crippled from unknown accidents. A few showing signs of disease, from palsied tremors to leprous rot. Most, however, were intact — even healthy — inside their varied prisons.
Some clutched the steel bars that blocked their freedom; those girls howled obscenities to empty air. Some had their backs to the bars of their cage, sitting at food-heaped tables: eating, drinking, carousing. Some seemed engaged with invisible sex partners: lying, standing, kneeling.
Many were dancing. Elegant, frenzied, languid, lascivious. Masked for a festival or wearing full ballet garb, dressed down in rehearsal tights or even naked. Tightly contained steps, or wild leaps that caromed off the walls of their prisons.
Every dancing foot revealed a spot of crimson.
A million million possibilities. All the Youn Suu’s there could be. All imprisoned; all claimed by the spores.
The vision floated on, past ever-stranger versions of the same girl. With the left half of her face metal instead of flesh. Plastic instead of metal. Glass instead of plastic. The entire face unblemished… or gold-plated like Tut… or entirely missing, no muscles or bone, leaving the brain behind open and exposed.
Versions with fur or reptilian scales. Multicolored versions with Cashling spottles. Versions with insectlike mandibles or protruding snouts.
On and on the vision moved… till it reached not the end but the middle. The line of Youn Suu’s the vision had followed was a single spoke of a wheel that spread the breadth of a galaxy. More Youn Suu’s dotted the wheel’s other spokes: Youn Suu’s from different cycles of time, when all that had been would recur. Her string of lives would be relived, again and again as time repeated — each cycle a perfect rerun of all those before, unless, like the Buddha, she burned her way out from the ever-returning trap. But no Youn Suu had managed such a feat of liberation; all were still imprisoned, whether the cages were cramped stone cubicles or opulent pleasure palaces with the jail bars swathed in silk.
Except…
At the center of the wheel — the hub where the vision led — were two Youn Suu’s free of all confinement.