Endymion Rising is a story about a messiah that continually insists that it's not. Written from the perspective of the messiah's lover, Raul, the narrative proceeds as if it's deconstructing the myth of Aenea—taking her from messiah to tired young woman—but it's a dishonest deconstruction. Every lesson Raul learns is that Aenea knows best; every bit of anger or disappointment he has towards her is eventually revealed to be a product of his weakness and flawed understanding; every time Aenea insists she isn't the messiah, it's in the context of her accomplishing another improbable feat.
Perhaps this was, ultimately, intentional. After all, in explaining the course of human history (knowledge she alone among humans possesses), she positions Jesus himself as an effective precursor to her. Perhaps then her main protest—her lack of messianic nature—represents more of a humanist apotheosis; denying the label "messiah" isn't denying her greatness, but rather her purpose? Aenea frequently claims that her mission is to help people think for themselves, and that she brings physical, but not spiritual, truth. It may be that she would rather be thought of as a freedom fighter, not a messiah—an actor grounded in the secular.
If that is so, therein lies the authorial rub. Simmons created a character that wants to be a secular icon, but presents her as someone set apart. Human heroes must be human, but Aenea is constantly and exclusively presented as perfect. She does struggle, to be sure, with the pain of her knowledge and calling, but it is a divine struggle; as Jesus prays that his cup may pass, so too does Aenea seem to wish her life could be easier. But it's only the pain we see her grapple with; she never doubts, never waivers, never is uncertain in any meaningful way (she often is uncertain about the future, but every decision she makes is sure and unassailable in the moment). The comparison to Jesus fits well, and compounds the problem. Either Simmons is saying Aenea is divine as Jesus was, or Simmons is saying Aenea has deep knowledge that Jesus was not in fact divine; the former makes Aenea a messiah, and the latter gives Aenea access to secret metaphysical knowledge—either way we see an otherworldly savior, not a normal human actor.
It doesn't help that Simmons chose to present the story through the eyes of Aenea's lover. It could have helped—a lover, much like an inner monologue, can reveal the private struggles of a public hero in a way that humanizes them—but Simmons did not go that way. Instead, Simmons presents Raul as an eager but struggling disciple whose eyes we learn Aenea's saving message through. He is a classic disciple: he doubts, he doesn't understand, he's devoted but frail and quick to get emotional . . . he is never presented as an even match for Aenea, and his love for her seems more to be devotion than connection. He is not unlike the narrator in fight club, in that he longs desperately to be by Tyler's side, but is often in the dark about Tyler's plans and angry about his lack of access.
The love story between Aenea and Raul did start with some credibility; in the preceding book, he rescued her as a child from apparent death and spent years fleeing with her. Over the course of the story, a bond grew between them—not of romantic love, but at least of protection and affection. But there is no further development of that bond in Endymion Rising. There is everpresent uncertainty from Raul, about who Aenea is, what he thinks of her mission, how he can be useful to anyone, etc., and there is everpresent certainty from Aenea, as she immediately and constantly gains the allegiance of everyone she meets, teaches the Dalai Lama how to find truth, directs armies, and eventually sacrifices herself (literally) to save humanity and teach them her humanist lesson: Choose Again.
I think maybe the realization that the only viable way to end a character is to give them a sacrificial death should give authors pause. This is the second humanist messiah book I've read, the other being Stranger in a Strange Land, and both follow the same pattern. And both annoy the hell out of me. I'm not entirely sure why. It may be that I find the idea of a human messiah contradictory, and so think the aim of any story is sure to fail. It may be that such stories are inevitably (perhaps definitionally) preachy, and I prefer my fiction to show not tell, thank you very much. It may be that such messiahs, at least in science fiction, tend to have outlandish messages; at least when Galt preaches about capitalism, the reader can agree or disagree with immediacy; when Michael Valentine preaches about martian truths, it's a little less accessible.
Not that I think Atlas Shrugged avoids the problems of these other messianic stories. But Atlas Shrugged is better, at least. Perhaps the difference is in the presentation: in both Stranger and Endymion Rising, we routinely see through the eyes of a doubter who eventually becomes convinced; the narratives thus serve in some sense as proselytizations that seek to in turn convince the reader. Atlas, on the other hand, is told from the perspective of a believer who has searched for her messiah's truth all her life. This unabashed declaration perhaps makes the story a little more palatable to a skeptic, as it feels less like a pitch and thus less likely to catch the reader unaware. With the skeptical walls thus lowered, the reader can engage with the story comfortably and accept or reject messages as he will. When a narrative seeks to convince, on the other hand, the skeptical reader will be suspicious and on guard, and likely will reject any value from the narrative along with the gospel the book is pushing.
The Hyperion Cantos began with a beautiful book full of horror, sadness, and above all, mystery; it ended with a bland messiah revealing all truths in a way that's not particularly interesting or relevant. Read Hyperion but stop there, with the pilgrims about to enter the valley of the Shrike; revel in the poetic mystery and uncertainty of the story and the way it reflects the human condition. Simmons wrote a fantastic mystery and a terrible revelation—don't let the latter ruin the former for you.
