Context (55 page)

For
three days Yerwo was made to fast, locked in his solitary prayer cell with only
water to drink, and no food at all. Tom hoped the poor fellow was using the
time well, for prayer and meditation, in preparation for a new Way.

‘Tom?’ Brother Fazner, whom Tom
had accompanied into the commercial district several times, handed him a small
bundle. ‘Take this to the Abbot, please.’

‘Of course, my brother.’

Tom walked to the small, plush,
private chapel, and found the blue membrane which led to the Abbot’s chambers,
and stepped inside.

A banquet unfolded around him.
Local dignitaries were feasting upon exotic fleshbloc dishes such as Tom had
not seen since his Palace days. Monks moved among them, serving. A few of the
elders were dining—forcing themselves to break their normal diet—while the
Abbot, in his blackstone chair, his curled hat skewed upon his shaven head,
laughed uproariously at something a trader said.

‘Yes?’ One of the monks came up
to Tom. ‘The Abbot cannot be disturbed. These are delicate negotiations

‘Of course.’ Tom held out the
package. ‘This is for him.’

‘I’ll take it.’

‘Thank you, brother.’

As
he left, Tom caught sight of a sour face among the diners, lean and with a dark
goatee: Master Lochlen, of the House Of The Golden Moth.

I’ve been there, haven’t I?

Frowning, Tom walked on deep in
thought, hardly noticing as he passed an open cell, just as Yerwo was being led
out.

‘Tom?’

‘Ah ... Go well, my brother.’

‘What do— Fate! Don’t you
realize? Don’t eat the—’

But guardian-monks took hold of
him then, and Tom watched sadly as they ejected him from the monastery, and the
big bronze door swung shut, cutting off Yerwo’s strange hysterical
protestations.

In
a narrow cloister, late in the day, Tom moved silently. Finally, he stopped
before an opaque membranous door, and waited.

His mind was clear, so it was
impossible to tell how much time elapsed before a tall monk stepped out, nearly
bumping into Tom.

‘Oh, I —I beg your pardon.’

‘My fault,’ said Tom. ‘I was
standing here.’

But as the membrane liquefied,
Tom had seen the kitchen-lab’s interior. A bright holo image—a twisted, complex
enzyme around which femtovectors swarmed—was hidden from view as the door
vitrified once more.

‘What—what do you think you just
saw, my brother?’

There was a great deal Tom had
missed, but even so ...

‘I’m not sure.’ Tom shook his
head. ‘I could barely make out the compiler.’

The tall monk sucked in a breath.
‘You know of such things?’

‘I’m not trained in logotrope
design. But it looks clever.’

‘What does?’ The tall monk
fidgeted, unsure whether to call someone.

‘The zentropes you’re putting in
the food ...’

When Tom smiled, he was radiant.

‘... What a wonderful idea!’

I
was always,
he
realized,
running
away
from something.

But now, in his devotions, there
was a beautiful, selfless goal to run
towards,
and that made all the
difference.

‘What
is the thought’—the Abbot’s soft voice came from Tom’s left—‘of one neurone
firing?’

In the small plain chamber, Tom
knelt facing a blank white wall: at right angles to the Abbot, unable to see
the master’s expression.

There is no logic here,
said a small voice inside.
Thought
is an emergent property of vast numbers of. . .

Tom stilled his mind.

Waiting.

And then, without volition, his
one hand rose, and clapped the air.

Beside him, the Abbot bowed
deeply.

The
next day, when Tom returned from prayer-run, the Outer Court’s guardian-monks
genuflected upon his arrival.

No-one told him, yet he knew that
his place was no longer in the novitiates’ dorm.

Instead, he passed along a
colonnade, to the long rows of individual cells where true monks slept and
prayed, and found a holoflame burning brightly in the final cell.

He entered, sank into lotus on
the meditation mat, and focused on the yellow votive flame.

The chamber flickers.

It was so obvious now.

The flame is still.

~ * ~

30

TERRA
AD 2142

<Story>>

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