There was an inevitable vagueness associated with the whole procedure that Involveds throughout the galaxy had become used to when dealing with anything to do with Subliming, but it had been proved to the satisfaction of even the most sceptical of observers that the personalities of dead Chelgrians did survive after death, and could be contacted through suitably enabled devices or people.
Those souls described a heaven very similar to that of Chelgrian mythology, and even talked of entities which might have been the souls of Chelgrians dead long before the development of Soulkeeper technology, though none of these remote ancestor personalities could be contacted by the mortal world directly and the suspicion was that they were constructs of the Chelgrian-Puen, best guesses at what the ancestors might have been like if heaven had really existed from the start.
There could, however, be no real doubt that people were saved by their Soulkeeper and did indeed enter the heaven fashioned for them by the Chelgrian-Puen in the image of the paradise envisaged by their ancestors.
“But are the returned dead really the people we knew, Custodian?”
“They appear to be, Tibilo.”
“Is that enough? Just appearing?”
“Tibilo, you might as well ask when we awake whether we are the same person who went to sleep.”
He gave a thin, bitter smile. “I have asked that.”
“And what was your answer?”
“That, sadly, yes we are.”
“You say ‘sadly’ because you feel bitter.”
“I say ‘sadly’ because if only we were different people with every wakening then the me that wakes up would not be the one who lost his wife.”
“And yet we are different people, very slightly, with every new day.”
“We are different people, very slightly, with every new eye-blink, Custodian.”
“Only in the most trivial sense that time has passed during the moment of that blink. We age with every moment but the real increments of our experience are measured in days and nights. In sleep and dreams.”
“Dreams,” Quilan said, staring away again. “Yes. The dead escape death in heaven, and the living escape life in dreams.”
“Is this something else you have asked yourself?”
It was not uncommon, nowadays, for people with terrible memories either to have them excised, or to retreat into dreams, and live from then on in a virtual world from which it was relatively easy to exclude the memories and their effects that had made normal life so unbearable.
“You mean have I considered it?”
“Yes,”
“Not seriously. That would feel as though I was denying her.” Quilan sighed. “I’m sorry, Custodian. You must get bored hearing me say the same things, day after day.”
“You never say quite the same thing, Tibilo.” The old monk gave a small smile. “Because there is change.”
Quilan smiled too, though more as a polite response. “What does not change, Custodian, is that the only thing I really wish for with any sincerity or passion now is death.”
“It is hard to believe, feeling as you do at the moment, that there will come a time when life seems good and worthwhile, but it will come.”
“No, Custodian. I don’t think it will. Because I wouldn’t want to be the person who had felt as I do now and then walked—or drifted—away from that feeling until things felt better. That is precisely my problem. I prefer the idea of death to what I feel just now, but I would prefer to feel the way I do now for ever than to feel better, because feeling better would mean that I am not the one who loved her any more, and I could not bear that.”
He looked at the old monk with tears in his eyes.
Fronipel sat back, blinking. “You must believe that even that can change and it will not mean you love her less.”
Quilan felt almost as good at that point as he had since they had told him Worosei was dead. It was not pleasure, but it was a sort of lightness, a kind of clarity. He felt that he had at last come to some sort of decision, or was just about to. “I can’t believe that, Custodian.”
“Then what, Tibilo? Is your life to be submerged in grief until you die? Is that what you want? Tibilo, I see no sign of it in you, but there can be a form of vanity in grief that is indulged rather than suffered. I have seen people who find that grief gives them something they never had before, and no matter how terrible and real their loss they choose to hug that awfulness to them rather than push it away. I would hate to see you even seem to resemble such emotional masochists.”
Quilan nodded. He tried to appear calm, but a frightful anger had coursed through him as the older male had spoken. He knew Fronipel meant well, and was sincere when he said that he did not think Quilan was not such a person, but even to be compared to such selfishness, such indulgence, made him almost shake with fury.
“I would have hoped to have died with honour before such a charge might be levelled against me.”
“Is that what you wish, Tibilo? To die?”
“It has come to seem the best course. The more I think about it, the better it becomes.”
“And suicide, we are told, leads to utter oblivion.”
The old religion had been ambivalent about taking one’s own life. It had never been encouraged, but different views of its rights and wrongs had been taken over the generations. Since the advent of a real and provable heaven, it had been firmly discouraged—following a rash of mass suicides—by the Chelgrian-Puen, who made it clear that those who killed themselves just to get to heaven more quickly would not be allowed in there at all. They would not even be held in limbo; they would not be saved at all. Not all suicides would necessarily be treated so severely, but the impression was very much that you’d better have an unimpeachable reason for showing up at the gates of paradise with your own blood on your hands.
“There would be little honour in that anyway, Custodian. I would rather die usefully.”
“In battle?”
“Preferably.”
“There is no great tradition of such martial severity in your family, Tibilo.”
Quilan’s family had been landowners, traders, bankers and insurers for a thousand years. He was the first son to carry anything more lethal than a ceremonial weapon for generations.
“Perhaps it’s time such a tradition started.”
“The war is over, Tibilo.”
“There are always wars.”
“They are not always honourable.”
“One may die a dishonourable death in an honourable war. Why should the converse not apply?”
“And yet we are here in a monastery, not the briefing room of a barracks.”
“I came here to think, Custodian. I never did renounce my commission.”
“Are you determined to return to the Army, then?”
“I believe I am.”
Fronipel looked into the younger male’s eyes for some time. Finally, straightening himself in his side of the curl-chair, he said, “You are a major, Quilan. A major who would lead his troops when he wishes only to die might be a dangerous officer indeed.”
“I would not want to force my decision on anyone else, Custodian.”
“That is easily said, Tibilo.”
“I know, and it is not so easily done. But I am not in any hurry to die. I am quite prepared to wait until I can be quite certain I am doing the right thing.”
The old monk sat back, taking off his glasses and extracting a grubby-looking grey rag from a waistcoat. He breathed on the two large lenses in turn and then polished each. He inspected them. Quilan thought they looked no better than when he had started. He put them back with some care and then blinked at Quilan.
“This is, you realise, Major, something of a change.”
Quilan nodded. “It feels more like a… like a clarification,” he said. “Sir.”
The old male nodded slowly.
