SATORI
Dennis A. Schmidt
v2.5 – fixed broken paragraphs, garbled text, formatting; by peragwinn 2004-12-13
This book is dedicated to
Edward Wilson, Ludwig Wittgenstein, Martin Heidegger and my parents
PROLOGUE
The probe slid cautiously toward the fifth planet. All its sensors were extended to their fullest, sending out wave after wave of careful electronic questioning. Aside from the usual background whisperings of interplanetary space, only a dead silence returned. Nevertheless, the probe remained tensely alert, ready to run at the slightest sign of hostility.
It paused as if in surprise when it detected the five starships that hung in geosync orbit above the cloud-speckled surface of the world it was approaching. A series of inquiries in various modes and frequencies failed to elicit any response. All five appeared to be dead lumps of orbiting metal. Four were even partially dismantled, showing gaping holes in their hulls. Only one, a dead black monster, seemed completely intact. Visual identification showed it to be a Class B Command Ship of a design at least eight hundred years old! The probe checked its memory cubes for the exact call numbers and tried to contact the ship's computer directly. Again, its efforts were met with a total, deathlike silence.
More confidently now, the probe moved toward the planet. The Class B, which could have squashed it as easily as a human could squash an ant, remained totally inactive, perhaps even defunct. The four Class F Arks (identification had finally been achieved despite their condition) that orbited with it were empty—and didn't carry weaponry in any case. There were no indications of dangerous or hostile activities anywhere within the system. Even the surface of the planet was quiet.
The probe took up a position behind the largest of the four moons. The light reflecting from the vast ice fields that covered the satellite showed the intruder clearly for the first time. It was no more than forty feet from end to end. Its center was dominated by a large, dead black globe, some fifteen feet in diameter. At either end, four more globes, equally black, about five feet in diameter, clustered together. In between the three groups stretched a thin, weblike tracery of cables and girders that held the pieces together.
Twice the probe followed the moon around the planet, always keeping position on its far side. The third time around, the smaller globes detached themselves, one by one, moving slightly inward, to form a loose ring just inside the orbit of the moon and keeping pace with it. Two more orbits and they began to move closer and closer, tightening their ring, until they took up positions well within the path of the smallest, closest, and fastest of the four satellites.
Reaching their final orbits, they hung there silently for a while. Then they began to chatter, sending streams of information to the large globe that still hid behind the moon. Every few revolutions, the heart of the probe aimed its antenna outward and squirted a high-speed data-crammed message toward the stars.
Deep in interstellar space, another antenna received the messages. And slowly a huge, dark shape began to move in their direction.
PART ONE
In every serious philosophical question uncertainty extends to the very roots of the problem.
We must always be prepared to learn something totally new.
—Ludwig Wittgenstein
I
"She's quiet as a suspension vault, Worship."
The tension on the bridge relaxed just slightly, but every hand stayed poised over its switch. "An sensors are operational?" The question came from the small, purple-robed man standing in the center of the bridge area.
"Aye, aye. All functioning within six decimals of optimal."
"No sign of electromagnetic discharge?"
"Minor, Worship. Nothing that can't be accounted for by natural sources."
"What about visible wave lengths on the night side?"
"Marginal. Something that appears to be an active volcanic chain. Nothing indicating large population clusters."
"How about the longer wave lengths? No radio at all?" queried a tall, well-formed man in a deep blue military uniform. He wore several medals on his chest and there was gold braid around the brim of his cap.
"No, sir. Not a peep. Just random discharge from a large storm centered over the northern continent and minor whistles from a few others scattered here and there."
"Evaluation," demanded the man in the robe.
A young woman in a brown robe responded with a crisp, "Yes, Worship" and began to punch at lighted squares on the console in front of her. After a moment she looked up. "Evaluation, Worship. Point four chance of human habitation. Class Three optimal, Class One minimal."
"Class Three," he murmured. "Preindustrial. Transitional, if I remember correctly.”
The woman nodded. "Yes, Worship. Approximately equivalent to Earth, Western European Sector, around the turn of the nineteenth century A.D. That's, let's see," she punched quickly at the squares again, "ummmm, about fourteen hundred years ago. Industry was just beginning. Small scale, family owned. Most water powered. Some steam. Petrochemicals still unused and ..."
"Weapons technology?" snapped the military man.
"Ummmm ... well, sir, primitive. Gunpowder-propelled missiles. Muskets, cannons, nothing much more than that. I don't even think they were repeating weapons. But that's not my specialty."
"No matter,” he dismissed her with a wave, turning to face the man they all referred to as "Worship."
"Bishop Thwait,” he began with a slight inclination of his head, "if Your Worship agrees, I think we can stand down from full red alert. It seems that if this colony survives at all, it's degenerated to the point where it offers no threat."
The bishop raised one white eyebrow and asked, "The flagship?"
Immediately a second brown-robed figure at a console across the bridge responded. "Quiescent, Worship. Seems dysfunctional. All vital power readings zero. Evaluation: dead, Worship."
"Hmmmmmm. Well, then, yes, Admiral, I agree. I think yellow alert is sufficient. Do you concur?"
The admiral nodded. "Sufficient. Yes." He turned to an orderly standing nearby. "Stand down from full red alert, mister. Establish yellow alert."
"Aye, aye, sir." The man walked over to a console, pressed down a lever and spoke into a grid. "Now hear this. Now hear this. All hands stand down from full red alert. Stand down from full red alert. Crew Block Two establish yellow alert. Crew Block Two establish yellow alert. That is all." He turned to the admiral and saluted. "Sir, report crew standing down from full red alert. Report Crew Block Two establishing yellow alert. Sir."
"Good. Worship, I think we should confer on this situation and our planned course of action, soonest. My cabin."
"Agreed, Admiral. The time seems propitious." He turned and spoke to the robed figures who made up about half of those manning the consoles scattered about the bridge area. "My children, you will stay alert and on duty until relieved. Huron, I want the sensors in farther, just within the atmosphere for several turns. Calmanor, break out the photo-probes and send them in for low-level scan. If this is a Class Three, that is about the only way we will get any data short of landing. And remember, all of you, collect and correlate as much data as possible, as soon as possible. No guesses, no errors. Data."
Although their eyes never left the dials and meters on their consoles, a murmur of obedience rose from the robed ones. For a moment the little man stood and watched, a musing expression on his sharp-featured face. Then he lifted both hands into the air, joining forefinger with forefinger, thumb with thumb to form a single large circle. “In the name of Reality, in the name of the Circle, in the name of the Power, in the name of Humanity," he pronounced with ritual solemnity. Even as they continued to watch their instruments, everyone on the bridge, robed and unrobed alike, raised their right hand, forming a small circle with forefinger and thumb and intoned, "So be it and so it shall be." A slight pause, a slight satisfied nod, and the bishop turned and followed the admiral from the room.
The cabin directly adjoined the bridge so they didn't have far to walk. "Care for anything, Andrew?" the admiral asked as the bishop settled into one of the chairs in the front sitting room.
"No, Thomas, no thanks. A bit too early for me. But go ahead. I guess the major strain of this contact procedure rests on your shoulders. After all, you are the one in charge of fighting or running."
"Huh," snorted the military man. "Not much of either here. No way to build a career contacting Class Threes. If it's even that! Damn. She did say only point four, right? Damn planet might be empty. I 'd hoped for a little action."
"Like at Quarnon?" Andrew asked softly.
"Yes, damn it! Like Quarnon!" the other man snapped back in sudden anger. "I know you priests didn't approve of that action, but I still believe we had no choice. We had to smash those bastards before they smashed us."
"But the whole planet, Thomas, the whole planet? Was that not a bit extreme? It might have been useful unburnt, you know."
"I lost two ships in that battle," the admiral answered grimly. "Good men, all of them. Damn near bought vacuum myself." He paused, his face harsh with remembered hatred and anger. "Bastards got what they had coming to 'em. They asked for it."
Andrew Thwait, Bishop of the Power, looked carefully at the man who stood glaring down at him over the top of a glass filled with the finest whiskey Earth could offer. Thomas Yamada, Admiral of the First Expeditionary Fleet, was a man of action and ambition. How else could one explain the presence of such a high-ranking officer aboard a scout ship? Thomas wanted to be in on the excitement, the contact, the possible battle and subjugation of every new colony world they found. Unlike most other men of his rank, he refused to stay behind a desk back with the rest of the fleet. Simple blood lust and a zest for adventure demanded that he be out front, taking the risks and getting the thrills himself. Everyone called him the Fighting Admiral, and he loved it.
He's well-suited for the role, Andrew thought. Tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, muscular, handsome, he was everyone's vision of the brave soldier. His black hair was precisely cut and seemed almost like a dark, shining helmet. Two calm, midnight eyes challenged the world with an unwavering stare. An aquiline nose, firm mouth, and strong chin completed his face and gave him the commanding look of a recruiting-poster model or vid-program hero.
Yet he had faults, and serious ones, as far as Andrew was concerned. First and foremost was his strongly militaristic mind-set. For Thomas, every conflict, no matter how minor, took on the character of total war. The only method he had for dealing with a problem was to destroy the cause of it.
Not that Bishop Thwait saw anything wrong with destroying one's enemies. Far from it. Killing was often the simplest and the most efficient method. But Thomas liked killing in large quantities. He talked of mega-deaths, even planet-deaths. And killing was always the admiral's first, if not only, approach to the solution of conflicts. The bastards always asked for it.
Actually, the bishop realized, this simplistic view of the world was probably the result of the admiral's other fault: Put succinctly, Thomas wasn't terribly bright. Oh, he was intelligent enough in a limited way. But obviously he hadn't been smart enough to enter the Temple for training in the Power.
Perhaps it was this lack of real intelligence that accounted for Thomas's tendency to reduce every question into one of "Surrender or I shoot." Perhaps he simply had a bloodthirsty nature. In either case, the man utterly lacked subtlety. His thoughts went in straight lines ... and usually ended in collisions. He was incapable of seeing that there were other ways of overcoming barriers than just smashing them down.
Andrew sighed. And I have to be saddled with him as. my co-commander on this expedition, he thought. I'd much rather have had Davidson, especially for this particular situation. She was most reasonable, for a military type, and capable of clever, subtle maneuvering. The Power awed her, or at least she pretended it did, so she was quite tractable and open to suggestion. Altogether the sort of person needed for this potentially touchy contact. But no, Thomas had smelled glory and demanded it for himself. Ah, well, Andrew sighed mentally, there are ways. Thomas will do. Not as pliable a tool as some, but he will do all the same. The Power always triumphs.
Devious bastard; the admiral thought, returning Bishop Thwait's cool scrutiny over the top of his whiskey glass. They're all devious, these priests of the Power. If I had the power they control ... Damn! Who'd need to be devious? Just demand what you want. If anybody objects ... zaaaap! All that science at their command. Shit. The Power is well named! Wonder what he's thinking right now?
Searching for some clue, he scrutinized the figure sitting so calmly before him. The ice blue eyes were as cold and closed as ever. The sharp, straight nose pointed to the grim line of a mourn that indicated decisiveness and efficiency rather than emotionality. The pale skin was smooth, unwrinkled, lacking either smile or worry lines. Closely cropped pure white hair completed an appearance that yielded nothing, remaining cool and aloof. Long, slender hands lay quietly in the lap of the purple robe. Beneath that robe, the rest of the figure must be equally spare and simple, Thomas thought. And tiny. The man was so tiny! Barely five feet tall.
Physical size didn't really matter in a priest of the Power, though, and Thomas knew it. Brains were all that counted. Sheer intelligence. And tiny little Bishop Thwait had more than his share. The man had worked his way up through the hierarchy by exercising a combination of pure brilliance and breathtaking ruthless-ness. His schemes were so devious, so involute and multilayered, that no one over knew exactly what he would do next, or why. All one could depend on was that the bishop would accomplish whatever it was he set out to do and that anyone who stood in his way was doomed.
And that's why the Committee sent me on this mission, he thought. Something's up when a bishop of the Power, especially Thwait, goes out on a scout ship to make contact. Something special, something worth keeping a close watch over. Perhaps even something that could be useful to the Committee, could serve in the struggle against the Power.
He frowned. But now I'm beginning to wonder. That planet's nothing. Oh, maybe rich enough in resources. But hardly important enough to rate the attentions of a bishop. It doesn't even look like the colony made it, might not even have any human life at all. Strange, he mused. Very strange. Because I'm sure Andrew was expecting something. Ordinarily he's as cool as deep vacuum. But he was excited about this contact. He even looked nervous on the bridge just now, picking and fiddling with the sleeve of his robe.
Damn it, there's got to be something here! I smelted it. I knew it. What the hell is it?
The bishop cleared his throat. "Ummmm, Thomas. I think we should proceed with caution. I know there are no signs of activity, hostile or friendly, on the planet, and that the flagship seems to be incapacitated. But let me urge care even now. Until we are sure that what seems to be true is indeed so."
Sitting opposite the bishop, Admiral Yamada took a long, thoughtful sip from his glass. "How long?"
"Oh, well, several turns to establish all the basic parameters. Then, say, forty-eight standards for an analysis, perhaps another forty-eight for full evaluation. By that time we should be ready to set up a definite plan for contact with whatever Pilgrims have survived on the surface."
"If any've survived. Hell, Andrew, we don't have to wait that long. Even if any of 'em did make it, they've got nothing to match us. Easiest thing is to find some big population center, blast it, and lay down the law to 'em. No need for all this analysis and evaluation nonsense."
Andrew rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, steepled his long fingers, their tips just touching his nose, and gazed abstractedly at the floor. "Perhaps, perhaps not, Thomas, but, you see, there may be a few things about this particular pilgrimage you do not know."
His eyes lifted and met the admiral's for a few moments of cool appraisal. "I take it you have read the briefing on this planet? Good. Then you know the leader of the pilgrimage fleet was a man named Arthur Nakamura, a full fleet admiral.
"What you aren't aware of, because it wasn't in the report, is that Nakamura was a High Master of the Universal Way of Zen."
Thomas looked surprised. "A military man and some kind of priest?"
The bishop smiled. "Not as impossible as it sounds. Before the Readjustment many strange religions abounded on Earth. Zen was one of them. And there was nothing in their tenets to keep a man from combining warfare with high religious office."
"Huh. Sounds sensible to me."
"Hmmmmmmm, yes. Well, the Zenists were one of the most stubborn groups opposing the Readjustment, Thomas. There are none left on Earth. We had to readjust them all. Terrible loss, really. Many were quite brilliant."
The admiral shuddered inwardly. And they call us bloodthirsty, he thought. They "readjust" their enemies, destroy their minds, turn them into slobbering, pissing, shitting hulks that starve to death because they haven't enough sense left to feed themselves. That's civilized, clean, scientific; in keeping with the Power. Because some damn machine of theirs does the dirty work for them. Hell. At least I give my enemies a clean, quick, honorable death.
"Ah, well," the bishop mused, "the lessons of the past, and all that. It is a pity we did not keep a few of them around. They knew so much we would like to know.
"Anyway, I drift from my purpose. Nakamura was a High Master. I know you have no idea what that means, but imagine it as the approximate equivalent of a Cardinal of the Power. But with abilities of his own that went beyond the Power in some way we do not understand. That was the kind of man that led this pilgrimage."
Thomas shrugged. "So? Your own man said it. It's quiet as a suspension vault down there. If this fighting priest of yours was such a damn genius, what happened? Looks to me like he blew it."
"Yes. And that is exactly what worries me." He shifted position and leaned quickly forward, fixing the other with his sharp stare. "Thomas, the man's success probability quotient on that pilgrimage has been estimated at ninety-six percent. Ninety-six percent! I have never seen such a high figure!
"And yet, from a first look at things, it does indeed seem he failed. Utterly. "
"Which can mean one of several things. First, things are exactly as they appear. He failed. Totally, or at least so badly that the colony has degenerated almost to the point of being uncivilized. "
"But the major question one must then ask is 'Why?' After all, he had a ninety-six percent chance of success, he led a fully equipped pilgrimage with a flagship and four Arks. You know the firepower of that ship hanging out there, Thomas, and the amount of technology crammed aboard those Arks. What could have happened to them? Was there some unsuspected enemy lurking in the system, or even down on the planet? Some enemy capable of overcoming a ninety-six percent rating and a fully armed flagship? I do not like it, Thomas. There are just too many unanswered questions. Anything that could defeat a Class B would have to be big and powerful. Why have we not detected it? Or anything else, for that matter? Is there still an enemy skulking about? What could it be? And where is it? Still here, somewhere, waiting, waiting for us?"
He paused for a moment to let the words sink deep into the admiral's mind. Then, in a sudden swish of robes, the bishop stood and began to pace about the room. "But some things just do not fit that kind of an analysis. There are no signs of any struggle, let alone a major battle. That flagship may be defunct, but it is intact. It has never been blasted and the hull has never been breached. And even though those Arks are in bad shape, it's because they were purposefully dismantled so the materials could be used on-planet. So," he continued, "we are left with the obvious alternative. Some eight hundred years ago the pilgrimage led by Admiral and High Master Nakamura landed here and succeeded."
Thomas straightened up, carefully placing his now empty glass on the arm of his chair. "Shit," he said softly. "If that happened ...then in eight hundred years they'd have ..."He paused for a moment. "They were state-of-the-art on leaving, right?" The bishop nodded. "Huh, even allowing for a bit of backsliding, they should be at least a Class Six by now. Like Quarnon."
"Yes, Thomas. Like Quarnon."
"So that's why you wanted this one to yourself, eh, Andrew?"
The bishop nodded silently.
"I realize it's classified material, Power business and all that, but I think I've got a justifiable need to know in this case: Did the hierarchy ever achieve contact with this colony?"
"A message was sent, Thomas. And receipt was acknowledged by the flagship. No reply was ever received. And new inquiries weren't even acknowledged."
The admiral studied the floor for a few seconds, then raised his eyes and met the other man's quiet gaze. "You think this might all be a trap?"
Andrew shrugged. "Who knows? By all the odds we should have found a flourishing colony down there. The initial readouts from our own probe sensors give the planet a rating in the high nineties. They had all the right equipment. And exceptional leadership. Plus eight hundred years in which to develop.
"Yet all we find is silence. No indication of anything above a Class Three, if even that. It just does not make sense. And I neither like nor trust things that do not make sense."
Thomas Yamada leaned back, closed his eyes, and gently stroked his temples with his fingers. "Should we return to full red, Andrew? They could be suckering us into relaxing, just waiting until we're off guard." He opened his eyes and began to rise.
The bishop held up a restraining hand. "No, no. Yellow is sufficient for now. We know something is wrong, but we still do not know what. So far we've discovered nothing immediately threatening, so I see no sense in exhausting the men by keeping them on full red. No, I think we have to play a careful waiting game. Move slowly and precisely. Leave nothing undone, no option uncovered. We should send probes to every planet, every large rock, in this system. If they are hiding, they could be anywhere. And we should keep collecting data on the planet itself. Perhaps even send a team down. That is the key, Thomas: careful data gathering. Once we have the right information, the answer will appear."
He paused for a moment, his expression turning thoughtful. "Hmmmmmm, yes. The answer will appear. Thomas, I have a growing feeling we are fighting a battle of wits with a very subtle and brilliant opponent, one, moreover, who has been dead for eight hundred years."
"Nakamura?"
"Nakamura. This may be the final, ultimate confrontation between the forces of the Power and last remnants of our enemy. Fascinating."
There was a knock at the door. The admiral barked out a Yes. The door opened and a brown-robed acolyte stood there, embarrassed to have interrupted, but obviously brimming with news.
"What is it, my child?" the bishop asked, taking a step toward the young man.
"Worship. Pardon for interrupting. But we've just gotten the surface-scan photos in."
"And?" questioned the bishop.
"The planet's definitely inhabited, Worship. There are humans down there. Lots of them. And they're not primitive!"
II
The sun's first rays leapt over the horizon and soared westward, brushing Myali Wang's still face as they passed. More and then more light poured toward her until her whole body was wrapped in the warm, glowing cloak of morning.
This is the day, whispered a silent voice in her mind.
I am ready, she replied. I await the others.
There are five candidates, the voice continued. They have entered the Judgement Hall and are being prepared. Come when the others arrive.
Soon, she answered. I sense the approach of Mind Brothers.
She gazed down the hill on whose crest she sat and spied four darkly robed figures moving softly through the morning dimness that still clung to the narrow, tree-filled valley below. We always wear black for Judgement, she thought. How much nicer bright yellow would be.
The Mind Brothers she tended pulled gently against her restraints, attracted by the approach of others of their kind. Go, Brothers, she silently allowed and then laughed out loud as they tumbled invisibly down the hill to meet the newcomers in a swirling dance of welcome. To think our ancestors actually feared and hated them, she wondered, amused by their playful exuberance.
There had been good reason for their fear and hatred, of course. When men had first found the planet, it had seemed so perfect they called it Kensho after one of the stages of Enlightenment. They landed at First Touch and began to set up Base Camp. Quickly they shuttled down the Pilgrims and their equipment, delighted with the apparent tranquility and promise of the new world.
Their joy had been short-lived.
Suddenly, from nowhere, the invisible enemy had struck: the Mushin—unseen, undetected creatures that drove men mad so they could feed on the emotive energy that burst from an insane mind. They would take a mild emotion, like annoyance, feed it back through the mind in a feedback loop that spiraled it higher and higher, until it became an uncontrollable rage that blew the mind apart. Then they would swarm about in a frenzied feeding orgy, and leave nothing behind but a mindless, drooling hulk.
In a flash, the peacefully working Pilgrims turned into a howling, fighting, murdering mob. Every man, woman, and child fell on every other, clawing, striking, stabbing, killing. Over ninety percent of the Pilgrims died in what became known to future generations as the Great Madness. The shattered remnant would have perished too, if it hadn't been for Admiral Nakamura, the leader of the pilgrimage. Nakamura noticed that most of the survivors had one trait in common—they were devotees and practitioners of one or another form of mind control. From that information, and his own profound knowledge of the Universal Way of Zen, Nakamura had guessed the nature of the Mushin and devised a way to combat them. Mankind had been unable to leave the planet, and the mind leeches had made it impossible to stay, but there had been a Way—and the admiral had found it.
The fate of humanity on Kensho had had its ups and downs since that time, but thanks to people like Jerome, Chaka, Edwyr, Yolan, and many others, the Mushin had first been neutralized, then conquered, and finally tamed. Now, rather than the invisible terror that drove men mad, they were the Mind Brothers, partners in a new relationship that was still being explored.
Myali came out of her reverie as the four emerged from the trees and walked up the hill toward her. She didn't know any of them, would have been surprised if she had. People seldom performed Judgement more than twice in their life and then never with the same partners. It was too much to ask of anyone. Especially if there was sorrow ...
They arrived and stood around her, waiting. She was the senior judge this time, and it was up to her to begin. With a fluid movement, she rose and bowed to each one, giving them her name and receiving theirs in return. The two men were Hiroshi and Karl; the women, Ulla and Marion.
"Gather the Mind Brothers," she said once the introductions were finished. "The candidates are waiting." One of the women, Ulla, hesitated and Myali turned to her with a gentle smile. "I know," she reassured, "the first time is difficult. But Judgement is a service required by the Way. And joy is always a more likely outcome than sorrow. So walk with us, Sister, and hope." The other woman nodded, sighed, and joined them as they moved off westward, down into a broad valley where a low, rambling building lay in the distance.
A brisk fifteen-minute walk brought them to the door of the building. A knock was unnecessary for they were expected, and the door swung open as they reached it. The front room was empty of everything but a few simple pieces of furniture. In the next room five women and five men sat in twosomes, trying to look calm. As the judges entered, though, all eyes turned and followed them. Myali could still feel them on her back as they passed into the inner room.
An old, gray-haired man stood tall and silent in the center of the room. At his feet lay five babies, wrapped cozily in blankets. He pointed each of them to one of the children. Myali picked up the bundle on the far left and pulled back the cloth. A tiny, solemn face, mostly big blue eyes, looked up at her. Hope, she greeted it without speaking. Hope, little one.
When all the babies had been taken from the floor, the old man bowed to each of them in turn. Then he smiled and said softly, "The garden is lovely this time of the morning."
Myali bowed back. "Does the ko still bloom?"
The old man laughed. "The chill is in my bones. I will go sit in the sun in front of the Hall.” With that, he bowed again and left by the door through which they had just entered.
Hiroshi looked down at his bundle and the room fell quiet after the old man's departure. "Come," he said to the baby, "we will go view the ko." The others all nodded and Myali led the way to the other door, the one that opened into the garden that lay at the rear of the Judgement Hall.
Once in the garden, they wandered off in different directions until each seemed to be alone. Myali found a moss-covered stone next to a small pond. A water lizard squeaked annoyance as it scurried out of her way and landed in the water with a plop. After a second, its head popped up and it watched her with dark, suspicious eyes.
Sitting, she bent over the child again, pulling back the blanket so she could see more of it. Chubby, healthy, altogether a beautiful child. Peace and hope, she thought at it. I wish you joy.
She sighed deeply. But this, my little one, is Judgement. And I cannot guarantee joy. We face the moment of truth ...
allforjesus2001