by M F Sullivan
Worked like a charm every time. Tension could almost always be defused by shifting attention from the conflict at hand to the subject of Lavinia, for she seemed to inspire as intense an adoration in Cicero as she did in the Hierophant and Theodore—perhaps more, and in a way Dominia suspected was far more prurient than El Sacerdote was willing to admit. Mere mention of the girl could bring a bit of light to his beady black eyes. Doubtless moved by the spirit that the Duchess of Florence inspired, he landed a frosty pat upon the back of Dominia’s hand. “We all cared that you were gone, my sister.”
“You cannot begin to imagine,” enthused the heartily approving Hierophant on his son’s obvious lie. “How you’ve worried me! Not a night goes by that I do not think of you or what you have been doing. Not to mention the people you’ve been running around with! Hunters, Dominia? I cannot understand.”
“I’ve been in a very dark place.”
“To react to your wife’s suicide by taking sensitive information to the enemy—sensitive information about which you knew, at the time, truly nothing!—in pursuit of an obvious dream…my poor daughter, yes. A dark place, indeed.” Plucking up the hand that Cicero had touched, the Hierophant pulled her arm across the desk to kiss her unwilling knuckles, to pat them and say, “I am sorry you were so lost, and that I did not see. That I did not think to help you. We failed you, my girl. Poor, troubled Dominia. You have lived a harder life than I ever intended for you.”
Though taken aback at the almost genuine tone of his apology, the General reminded herself that no matter how good it felt to hear these things, they were almost verifiably false. Her weakness for his empty repentance was never so much because she believed he loved her, or maintained a single kernel of goodness. Rather, this vulnerability to his gestures emerged because, for centuries, she had paid deliberate overattention to his panache for flattery and placation. How else was she to cope with her circumstances? As a child, she had been a captive, given no choice but to favor his good qualities while blinding herself to his bad ones. But there were plenty of times in those young days when—as she did when he turned to Cicero and said, “Now that I’ve broken the ice between you, my boy, if you would leave us…I would like a word with Dominia alone”—she was acutely aware of the Holy Father’s more frightening capabilities. Blood drained to the bottoms of her feet. When she tried to slip her hand back, the Holy Father maintained his grip with a clamp of his hands effortlessly disguised as an affectionate pat.
“I suppose I must trust Father’s judgment,” crooned Cicero, who crossed himself and kissed his knuckles in the Hierophant’s direction. “If His Holiness sees fit that you should come and go as you please, who am I to second-guess? Good to see you home, Dominia.” He threw open the door and, with one arm, yanked the heavy thing shut behind him. “We’re just all glad you’re in one piece.”
Alone with the Hierophant—and not in the dream of the Void, where he either could not hurt her or could only do so negligibly—Dominia willed her pulse to stay slow and calm, because she could tell he took it with that great grip around her left hand. This, she studied before glancing into his bleak eyes as he said of Cicero’s comment, “Yes we are. The human world—the Hunter world—is of exceptional danger for a martyr. You know that, Dominia.”
“I didn’t know what choice I had,” she said, unwilling to move even to shrug. “I didn’t see a future if I stayed.”
“For yourself, or for the planet?”
As her Father released her hand, having no doubt decided that she was sufficiently anxious, she studied the pale teal vein of her wrist. It was true. Cassandra had not been the only motivation in Dominia’s abandonment of the Front, the Family. Only the final nail in the coffin. When, after her wife’s death the General had grown queasy about an idea that her Father had announced at a secret military conference—that was the lowering of that coffin into the ground. Project Black Sun, which she had not understood at the time, had seemed ridiculous but terrifying, and sent Dominia on a one-woman campaign to flee the martyrs’ oppressive religious state.
Now, the plan was only terrifying. She’d no idea back then how it could be possible for martyrs to survive in sunlight, as her Father claimed it would be once the project was fully initiated—but she’d felt deep concern that the attainment of such a goal would mean the destruction of the planet in addition to the human race. The idea of unhampered martyrs seemed unsustainable then, when she knew nothing of other dimensions, the value of virtual data, and her Father’s possession of all of it. Did a martyr want to come and kill you? They just had to pop into your living room. No need for threshold technology, what was the use? Just be a good little sheep, don’t say anything controversial on the Internet—Lamb, don’t even have the Internet—be quiet, polite, obedient, ignorant, hardworking. Then maybe—just maybe, if you’re very lucky—you or the people you love won’t be turned into meat. The situation of Dominia’s time, magnified to a point of absolute, unspeakable conclusion. Giving the entire race of martyrs the blood of Lazarus with the Hierophant’s claws still in their minds would jeopardize reality, the Ergosphere, maybe even the Kingdom.
“You want to get your hands on Lazarus.” She settled as far back in her seat as she could, her now-free hand folded over her ribs. “I understand, but I think what I thought when you asked for my help in Kabul.”
“Very disappointing, if true. I have concealed the secrets of Lazarus from our people to protect martyrs from themselves until this race possessed sufficient foothold on the planet—and until we had possession of you.” While she snorted, he continued. “This is truth. You are key in managing our people and their relationship with that sacred dream-space. Before the crises of your time, our population would not have been prepared to take it with the seriousness and respect required. After this comes to a head, and you are once more at my side, they will comprehend the gravity of the Void within the context of the Holy Martyr Church.”
“So you haven’t shown them yet because they lack a frame of reference? That’s ridiculous. Let them build their own. Why do they have to experience it through the Church?”
He smiled thinly. “Without a frame of reference to apply to my Church, they will not continue to listen to me. I have told you this already—the problem with Regulus, and so many others in generations before yours. My advice is critical if the species is to survive; and if the species remains obedient to our cause, why do martyrs not deserve the blood of Lazarus?”
“It’s a cultural problem, mostly. What would they do with themselves, these people—”
“Our people, Dominia, your people.”
“—what would martyrs do,” she corrected in irritation, “if given unlimited access to that place? To thoughtforms?” She lifted her eyebrows at the mere implication of that odious Memory Bride that had cleaved to her thoughts and produced a corrupted, ignorant duplicate of Cassandra, then succeeded in transitioning to the physical world, even if only to die at the General’s hands. “Do you really want a planet—a universe—full of thoughtform demons and martyrs not limited by the sun, or even physical space-time? How will humans survive? Uninitiated martyrs will run out of food, and initiated ones who can metabolize sunlight—”
“Oh, such martyrs will still be encouraged to follow the same diet they always have. It keeps us bonded to the Church and assists in the attraction and creation of thoughtforms, though such things are possible to accomplish without the aid of anthropophagy. However, it is undeniable that the traditional martyr diet increases the efficiency and simplicity of the creation of thoughtforms.”
She bit her tongue, refrained from stating how thoughtforms weren’t necessary for a Lazarene who knew a True Word, but she also supposed such a fact was beside the point for him. It wasn’t about True Words, or thoughtforms. It was about keeping his species morally and psychologically crippled—keeping them trapped in a cycle of shame, which, in turn, kept them crawling back to the Church. Back to Earth. “You’re going to cause the destruction o
f the human race. All sentient life.”
“My dear, small-thinking daughter, that will never be an issue. I have gone out of my way to see to it! Come here, my girl, look with me.”
The risen Hierophant pushed in his chair and strode to the window, where he waited patiently for Dominia to catch up to him beside the frosty glass. His breath condensing upon it, he first doubled over his massive frame and angled up his head; once satisfied, he drew Dominia down by the shoulders to point at one of the brightest visible cosmic bodies, its twinkle bright despite the city below. “Do you see that? Mars, my girl. As we speak, thousands—tens of thousands, by now—are working to transform its soil from barren rock to wholesome earth. All to sustain human life! The time of suicide or android missions launched from our lunar base is long over. The negligent ancestor of Carol McLintock”—the General grimaced to hear the name—“has, by now, died and left behind her Martian farm to Carol’s optimistic aunts, or perhaps, already, her cousins. They live and thrive and receive monthly shipments that I do not even have to provide anymore! China, that blessed hermit nation, sends them, thinking they are helping humanity. All those happy colonists, fleeing martyrs for greener pastures…what do you suppose they are doing? They are multiplying—multiplying so that, by the time we martyrs require the services of their planet, they will be ready to generously accept the burdens of their betters—and perhaps even begin another colony elsewhere.”
“You’re breeding a planet of slaves,” marveled Dominia, not astonished by the fact so much as his flat admission. “You’re prepared to ruin this planet because you’ve got a backup.”
“And many others, though much farther away and in the distant future aside from a few Luna-related plans we’re drawing up—but how simple a thing it might be, reaching another planet from the fabric of the Void, rather than through negotiating physical space-time! Imagine.” She turned to see that the manic sparkle of his eyes had kindled a fire that burned like the sizzling fireplace nestled between his bookshelves. “A true master race: multidimensional planet-walkers, who, as fertile and sun-loving as any other species, could colonize a planet with little more effort than that required for a healthy hike—even a drive, with toys of the sort you and your friends rode in on. And if you are very good, very dutiful, and prove you’ve changed your stripes, I see no reason why the former Governess of the United Front might not one night be the Stewardess of Planet Earth, once I have taken off to oversee Mars.”
She didn’t register that temptation until seconds later, too hung up on a phrase of his that had elicited a snort. “‘Planet-walkers’? You mean planet-eaters…it would be one thing if mankind were capable of such a thing; there’s a chance they’ll go someplace and help the people they find, rather than out-and-out annihilating them. There’s goodness in humans, or the possibility of goodness, anyway. But martyrs who believe in your teachings are too far gone. They’ll show up and ruin it all. Devour and terrorize the populace.”
“Such a thing takes time; and perhaps, in a few planets’ worth of experiments, we will come to a more sustainable solution. If only you would pay attention in Church! We provide an important service in God’s universe, my girl. We are not mere devourers of flesh and blood—these things are only symbols. We alleviate from the world the pain of mortal sin and take it on ourselves. It is the will of the Lord that we clean the conscious universe everywhere we go.”
Frustration tightened her throat, especially as he looped a big arm around her shoulders just before she was able to get out of his reach. “You really think God approves of killing?”
“My daughter, it is God’s will! God’s gift to us is this universe, and in exchange we keep it pure. We are its custodians, yes, but what ingrates would we be were we to leave such vast swaths of this greatest gift unused?”
“Maybe the rest of it isn’t a gift for you.”
“True, it is not necessarily a gift for me. But it is a gift for the winner of the game, and I intend to win.”
“Whatever bullshit is being played out between you and the magician, you mean.”
“Myself, the magician, the Lady, Lazarus, and, of course, you.”
“The pawn.”
With a gasp of displeasure, the Hierophant cried, “Why, my girl, not at all—not at all!”
She spared him what was intended as a dry glance but found herself reeled in by the earnest arrangement of his expression. “You, my girl”—he jostled her—“are the queen, if you are any chess piece at all. That is not a matter of gender: that is a matter of power. Long before martyrs, the queen was the vizier, you know. He who stands behind the king and overshadows him. But if you insist on feeling like a lowly pawn, never forget that a pawn upon the opposite side of its board becomes a queen. Choose a direction, my dear, and move as you please.”
“As long as it’s back to your side.”
“I would be nothing without my finest General. That’s why Cicero is so jealous of you, you know! Before you came along, he was my best warrior. After, well, I admit I always appreciate his abilities, but your prowess in battle, and your mind for strategy, is most admirable. How many victories have you delivered our nation?”
“Not enough for you to care about me.” Maybe it was stupid to say, but she was on edge, and felt like laying into him as much as she was allowed. “Not enough for you to have stopped me from doing something so cruel to my wife when I was out of my mind with betrayal and grief; not enough for you to have given me an ounce of recognition when I needed it. When I asked for it. Any relationship with you is only ever on your terms.”
“I see you’re still just as jealous of Cicero as he is of you…ah, my silly children. Would it fix your feelings if I called you my favorite child? Then would you return to my service, and bring me Lazarus?”
Part of her wanted to laugh—bitterly—at his idea that this was a reasonable request. She could just give up the man who had helped her, had given her back her eye and her teeth, had given her his truth-revealing blood! A simple trade. No effort at all.
Feeling helpless and stupid for ever having listened to the Lady—wondering if that Ergosphere apparition of the goddess was not some thoughtform sent by her Father, or something else altogether—the General searched her mind for alternatives, delaying tactics, and misdirections. In the end, she could only come up with the pathetic insistence that, “Lazarus is my friend.”
“Oh, my poor girl! I know he is. I’m sure you left quite a few friends behind! But, if they are still alive when we have completed the operation, I will be more than happy to pardon them.”
“Operation?” she asked, weakly. He lifted his brows.
“A preemptive strike of Tunis and Tangiers, and a surge of troops in Jerusalem. In fact, it’s been on for a fortnight— I suppose you were in the Ergosphere for a couple of weeks during your stroll across the ocean, weren’t you? We’re already ten nights to New Year’s. Lavinia’s Feast Night is but a few cycles away! You came home just in time.”
The Lady had not warned her about this. No wonder the landing pad of the plane didn’t work: it had as much to do with being too far from a reliable distance as it did with the fact that, by the time they were supposed to appear at the landing pad, the city of Tangiers would have been under assault and all prearranged plans to take its teleporter to Jerusalem would have been cratered. Dominia sickened while he carried on: “After you gave us such a good reason to attack by sweeping away Theodore, why—we would be fools not to take advantage of the opportunity.”
So Jerusalem had been falling since before she’d arrived at Kronborg. Hard to keep her mind on the present, suddenly. “And you expect me to give you all the information I can to help you cinch the conquests.”
“You have returned to the Family, haven’t you?” He arched a brow and tightened his grip of her shoulders. Dominia, for her part, studied the city and tried not to feel the slightest emotion. “It would be a pity to see you defect again after we’ve gone to such pains to welcome you back w
ith open arms and no questions. Such as, why you have suddenly decided to return”—the phantasmal reflections of his eyes bored into the reflections of hers like black drills—“or why I should believe you won’t betray me again.”
He shouldn’t believe it. She could lie flat in his face without a hint of guilt. Indeed, she felt a certain righteousness: that she might say or do anything in the carrying out of this task, because she was champion of the truth. Her heart was pure, and now forever a captive of humanity, if it had ever truly been otherwise. Thus, so long as she knew in her heart that it was a lie when she said, “If you must know, it was a disappointing experience,” she could speak what was needed with impunity.
“My poor girl,” said the Hierophant, releasing her with a pat so he could return to his seat. “You will have to tell me all about it sometime. I see from the diamond around your neck that I was right in warning you. The Lady is not what she seems, and Lazarus has no real power.”
“What about the magician?” She idled past his bookshelf upon seeing a copy of the Odyssey. The characters of its title remained as static as one would anticipate while her Father smiled at her question.
“What the magician can do is amazing, it’s true: Valentinian is a fellow of talent. But you, my girl, are infinitely more talented than that.”
In this, she was tired of pressing him. There was knowledge there with which he teased her, with which everyone had teased her. The only way she knew to deal with it now was to take her Father’s own patented sour grapes approach, which she did by changing the subject. “I appreciate your generosity in…accepting me back.”
“My child”—his tone held genuine warmth as he reclaimed his pen and returned to work—“there is nothing you could do to me that could not be forgiven. Even if some gesture is required to prove your sincerity, your Father’s unconditional love is always with you. I will see to it that Cicero forgives you as I do. I’m sure, once you have been punished, he will come around.”
