Mesopotamia - The Redeemer (28 page)

“Let's backtrack to the description
of change as a shift in position in an orbital path.” Enosh traced
the diagram on the display and added small arrows.

“The inertia of a Gnostic is to
continue in a straight line. Your influence must divert the
Gnostic's linear path into an arc that will lead him from his
position of nullification to the position of perfection. This
diversion occurs in gradual stages. Let's call each stage a turn.
Your job is to initiate a turn. Each turn begins as a change in
your consciousness, continues as a change in your relationship with
the Gnostic and finally manifests as a change in the Gnostic's
awareness. You can call this type of change by a number of names:
keys, insights, or comprehension of principles. When they are
internalized and acted upon, changes occur in the chain of events.
A turn is a conscious equivalent of an explosion. The goal is to
find the spark of humanity within the Gnostic and to inflate it in
such a way that it fills his entire being. That's why the task is
not as impossible as you may think.”

“This is beginning to sound like
Pythagorean engineering.”

“I wish it were that simple. In
practice, it's much more complicated. I'll try to convey the
process of these turns in a chart, but you must implement them in
response to the spontaneous developments in order to influence the
processes at hand. You must be extremely alert, for as soon as an
opportunity arises in which you can implement a turn, you must
act.”

The burden of responsibility landed
on Sophia's shoulders. She felt like the task was beyond her
abilities. “How will I learn to identify the turns? And even if I
do succeed, what chance will I have to influence the Gnostics?” she
asked. Her voice was fraught with concern.

“I can't guarantee that we will
succeed, and you must accept this possibility.”

“You're not really helping,” she
smiled weakly. “Was your loss of self-identity the first turn in
your consciousness?”

“Yes!” he said and nodded in
satisfaction. She was catching on to this quickly.

“Your meeting with me was the turn
that diverted me toward feeling sorrow at the loss of my
father.”

“Yes,”

“And by means of a chain reaction,
it caused me to recognize additional emotions. My passion was
aroused.”

“Correct, your passion and your
love for Thales,” he said as she smiled and blushed.

“But these turns are unpredictable.
Only after the fact we can assess how they occurred. Our plan is
comprehensive.”“And the next stage is to include the Gnostic in the
process?”

“Precisely.”

“And what is the next stage?”

“You need a motive that will enable
you to undergo this difficult task. It's not easy for a
Pythagorean, who believed in perfection for her entire life, to
suddenly develop passion,” said Enosh in the manner of a merchant
who feigns that he is not interested in selling his wares.

“You mean it's not enough that I
revealed my sorrow over my father and my love for Thales?”

“That seems to be the case,” he
said dryly.

“I am prepared to do anything.”

“That's not enough.”

“But I must!” she said with
increasing frustration.

“That too is not enough,” he
continued to lead her on.

She did not yet see where he was
leading her. While she paced the room, her thoughts raced through
her head. Suddenly, she stopped and announced decisively, “I want
to!”

A broad smile of satisfaction
spread across Enosh's face. Sophia smiled now that she finally
understood the position of passion to which Enosh was leading her.
“I want to, but I am afraid.”

“Will is a natural state of free
and active choice, not a state of compulsion. You just acquired a
turn,” he said with satisfaction.

“Are you sure that you can guide
this process?” she asked with concern. Fear gripped Enosh
again.

“I am not guiding this process,”
said Enosh. “I can only initiate a chain reaction and that is
precisely what I am doing right now. You will continue the process
and others will follow your lead. This is not a process that one
can navigate. It occurs in and of itself, by virtue of the
influence that one person has over another.”

He left Sophia and turned toward
his room. His apprehension increased the farther he distanced
himself from her. His shoulders slumped as soon as he entered the
privacy of his own room. The confidence that he outwardly
demonstrated dissipated. He was adept at feigning confidence for
the Pythagoreans and made a convincing show of it. But the fear
raged inside of him. In his memory, the applause echoed following
his lecture at the academy, but now it sounded like a taunting
jeer. He sat on his bed and held his head in his hands. 'I don't
stand a chance. She doesn't have a chance. We won't make it in
time, we won't make it at all,' he thought in despair. He recalled
his words to the Pythagoreans: 'Never mind, we will manage to
compete the training in ten days.' Now he derided himself for the
arrogance he demonstrated.

T
he taboo
had been broken. The material itself was not new to Thales. His
curiosity about battle had accompanied him for years. But as a
Pythagorean, he was discouraged from acting upon his interest.
Until now, he thought, the mere recognition of his aggressive
instinct was not in his realm of possibilities. In the past, he
researched the history of Greco-Roman wrestling, Chinese Kung Fu,
Japanese Karate and Korean Tae Kwan Do; he chuckled when he
realized that he was returning to his earlier studies. But now,
this educational pursuit was no longer a waste of his time. Using
the simulator, he designed rivals for himself and tried to fight
them in a systematic manner, though he felt awkward and even a
little ridiculous in doing so. He could not understand why he was
dedicating himself to this: it was obvious that he was not going to
single-handedly stop a Gnostic invasion nor was he going to
transform into a martial arts expert in the few remaining days.
Despite this, an unrelenting need to act spurred him on. In his
head, a phrase that Barman had once uttered echoed over and over:
'The absence of a chance at winning is not necessarily a reason to
avoid a just war.'

After an exhausting day, he sat at
the station's bar and gulped cool water enriched with electrolytes.
Around him sat couples and groups of technicians and engineers.
Barman poured, wiped, served and avoided bothering Thales.

Thales did not want to leave the
place. The groups came and went. He continued to drink, twice
getting up to make a trip to the bathroom. When the bar emptied,
Barman poured himself a shot glass of sweet peppermint extract with
a dash of absinthe and lemon peel and sat himself down on a
barstool next to Thales.

“Cheers!” Thales clinked his
glass.

“To a good life!” replied Barman
and tasted his drink.

They sat in silence, each one deep
in thought. Finally Barman began to speak, contrary to his usual
habit. “Something is bothering you.”

Thales tried to dismiss his remark.
“There are problems with the scouts. All of them want to lead and
none of them want to be managed.”

“Ah. It's difficult for me to
believe that such matters worry you,” said Barman in a compliment
tinged with skepticism.

Thales found it difficult to
respond. He was not accustomed to lying, and certainly not to
building an entire conversation based on a lie. He was silent for a
few long minutes. Occasionally he would wipe the beads of sweat
from his brow with a napkin. Barman noticed that Thales was holding
himself back. After a few long minutes, he stood up, returned to
his position behind the counter and polished a glass.

“So listen to this,” said Thales
without looking up at Barman.

“What?” Barman raised his eyes.

“Let's say that there is a
hypothetical situation in which I, as a Pythagorean, feel I must
fight.”

“Yes?” Barman raised an
eyebrow.

“That is to say, from a Pythagorean
ethical standpoint, I am convinced that this is the correct
path.”

“I have yet to meet a Pythagorean
who thinks that way but let's say such a situation existed,” he
said skeptically. He was surprised. This would not be one of the
many mundane conversations he was so accustomed to holding

“And let's say I was required to
fight man-to-man, with or without a weapon, but man-to-man.”

“Yes.”

“So how do I do that?”

“You want to learn to fight?”
Barman was astounded.

They silently exchanged glances.
Thales confirmed it with his eyes.

“And you are turning to me for
guidance. Why?” he asked dryly.

“Isn't it obvious? Who from among
the pacifistic Pythagoreans in Samos can I confide in other than
you? You are the only one among us who is not Pythagorean.”

“Me and the stranger.”

“Barman, tell me.”

“Yes.” Barman shot a glance at
Thales.

“Have you ever fought?”

Barman was not prepared for such a
personal question. He put down the dishcloth.

During his early days in Samos,
there were those who tried to penetrate the invisible wall with
which he surrounded himself, but he was adept at deflecting them.
Finally, everyone became accustomed to his silence, to the distance
he always maintained between himself and others. Now he was being
asked a personal question, an occurrence that he had not
experienced for quite some time. Thales watched as his face grew
despondent and the creases deepened between his eyes.

“Can you understand a man's desire
to break all of the values with which he was raised in order to
save his home? Or at least to save his honor?” asked Thales.

“There is no honor in war.” His
words were measured one by one.

He decided to throw off the
limitations of politeness and respect for privacy. “How do you
know?” asked Thales.

“One need not fight in order to see
the horrors of war.”

Thales noticed Barman's gloom and
his uncharacteristic decisiveness. He concluded that Barman was
hiding something.

“You are the only non-Pythagorean
person here. Maybe you could help me learn how to fight.”

“Why do you want to fight? What are
you hinting at, Thales?”

Thales hesitated and finally said,
“Do you know how to fight? Will you help me learn?”

“No! And I will not help you!”
Barman replied angrily.

Ever since he arrived at the space
station, he had not expressed anger even once. Thales' invasiveness
shook him from his equanimity. He stretched out his hand to raise
the shot glass of his drink from the counter, but his agitation
disrupted his movement. His glass as well as Thales' fell off the
table toward the pearly floor. With quick reflexes, he caught a
glass in each hand and placed them on the counter.

“What reflexes!” said Thales in
admiration. “Even with all of my training as a scout, I would never
have been able to do that.”

“The reflexes of a bartender.
Thales, I cannot teach you what you are asking for. Perhaps it is
better for you to continue to devote yourself to your faith.”

A handful of mathematicians that
entered began to spout expressions and formulas that neither of
them understood at all.

“Sorry if we're interrupting
something,” said one of them when he noticed that they suddenly
grew silent.

“Can I offer you some peppermint
extract?” asked Barman, raising his glass.

“Whatever you want.” The speaker
smiled and bowed his head theatrically.

“I apologize for angering you,”
said Thales. “I'll be on my way now.”

“Think nothing of it. Goodnight,
Thales.”

In the space around them, there
were no sunrises or sunsets, but in Samos they engendered an
artificial circadian rhythm. It was the third watch when Thales
completed another grueling workout. But he felt that his progress
was minimal despite his efforts.

Despite his fatigue and the late
hour, he did not go to sleep. He wandered the corridors of the
station. At this hour of night, a moment before the artificial
sunrise shone over the illuminated walls, the corridors were almost
completely empty. Here and there he saw maintenance workers in
their night shifts. Thales passed by them, pretending that he was
in a hurry so that they would not stop to chat with him. His feet
led him past the bridge into the core of the station, opposite the
processor room. The heavy iron door was open. Inside the room was
the huge sphere. The colored metals coiled and emerged from the
core of the sphere like smoldering lava, mirroring his confused
emotions. He wanted to dive into the giant sphere and forget his
worries; to fall asleep and wake up when it was all over.

Thales was not aware of the time
that passed as his eyes gazed intently upon the pulsating ball. The
morning melody of the heavenly spheres began to play and the
stiffness in his limbs began to melt. His breath became light. The
colors of the liquid metals appeared to be lighter hued. The
corridor walls imitated the colors of an Octavian sunrise.

Despite Barman's denial, Thales
simply knew that barman could help him. He made up his mind. He
will not wait for Sophia and would not ask her permission to tell
Barman. He would decide on his own, as Enosh would do, or any other
independent man who was not bound to a hierarchical system like
Octavia.

Barman was no longer in the bar.
The light of the sunrise became increasingly brighter. He could not
find him in the back room either. This was the time of day when
Barman usually retired to his room. He called him five times on his
private audio-visual device before Barman answered sleepily.

“Yes, my friend, of course, if it's
urgent you may enter my room.”