by M F Sullivan
“But there is no reason why the differences between martyrs and humans need remain a controversial topic for you, or the few like you who insist on belaboring the point. You have changed, of course, after seeing the world. And I know the tender part of you that has always struggled with its empathy for humans may well never be the same after these changes. But the humans have emotionally manipulated you and beaten you, badgered you off the righteous path I and Cicero and the Lamb placed you upon all those years ago. How we wish for you to be willingly guided back! Because, you see”—his attention was caught by something outside the window—“I cannot help you if you insist on remaining with the losing side.”
Pushed to her edge, the General lost her respectful tone along with any hesitance. “You can never win. As long as the magician exists, you’ll never win, ever. Hell, Valentinian doesn’t even need to be real. As long as a new world somehow appears, that’s all it takes. And people keep telling me I’m the one who makes this new world happen, so—”
“If you refuse to remove your thoughtbody’s eye patch in life, the world is recreated by default when you die.” That was a disturbing bit of information hitherto unshared with the General. Enough to deflate her sense of power. “If I martyr you and you are wise, a world is created. If I martyr you and complete your martyring, a world is created. You understand now why I cannot afford to leave you unmartyred, no matter the trouble you cause me. With you, I always have an exit strategy when things become troublesome.”
Fine, fine. All well and fine. “But you’re still failing in some way. Still failing to sustain the lives of martyrs. The life of the planet. Your own life.” His black eyes glimmered without moving from the window while she fished through his psyche, looking for that key. “You haven’t won an iteration yet, or you—some version of you—would have stopped this game when you had. Some Cicero always moves forward. In a perfect world, wouldn’t your whole Family—duplicate of you included—stay together? But you don’t. Something is wrong. You’re still trying to find your perfect solution, the way the magician looks for the best version of me.”
“Just like you look for the best possible reality. Just like all the rest of the players, of course, search for theirs. But I am in a unique position, for there is no reason Cicero or I need go to another world yet. Things have not become so bad as to require abandonment. You could remain perfectly alive, all of us happy in this world, living life the way it was before. You, my General. My daughter.”
She did not speak, studying with narrowed eyes the blurred text of his play. Now, he deigned to glance at her. “Do you suppose you are the only woman in the world who has lost a wife?”
“Shut up, please.”
“If I were you, I would not address me like that at this moment in time.” Her blood turned to refrigerant gas as he continued in perfectly casual tone, “I mean it for your sake, Dominia. Do you think this is a healthy mode of dealing with grief? Running away from it? I will be the first and most wholehearted in telling you that trying to find joy in a new world ends in more crushing disappointment than the initial loss.”
“It wasn’t the grief I was running from. I was running from you.”
With that perfect, blasé smile, the Hierophant waved her over. The reluctant General stood beside him to see what had caught his attention through the window. Her stomach lurched: its frame enclosed the slithering lights of a tanque caravan. She could sense what had happened even before the Hierophant told her.
“Though you likely think I returned just to catch you in the act of snooping through my office, try to be less self-centered. I admit I received a message that one of Lavinia’s friends thought you up to no good, but I had already been forced to leave rehearsal early after getting a phone call of actual importance. Jerusalem has fallen, Theodore has been rescued, and some of your most important friends have been captured alive. We didn’t need your help when I asked you before, about turning in Lazarus. I just wanted to see if you would volunteer. As usual, you stooped to my expectations. How tragic! You could have saved your leg at the cost of nothing not already lost.”
While she pressed her forehead against the cold glass to watch the procession through his taunting reflection, he said, “You know, I have always found the name ‘Israel’ to be a fascinating one. Jacob’s name, after that angel ruined his hip in their wrestling match. The name of the promised land—this iteration of the political state was founded with primarily Jewish intentions, you know, before it began accepting religious refugees amid the Holy Martyr Church’s success. Yet its etymology is controversial. Though some Hebrew scholars argue it means ‘God strives,’ ‘Israel’ really means ‘He who struggles against God.’ A more appropriate name for a man who tricked his brother out of his birthright and grappled an angel!
“It is in the nature of the chosen to struggle with their destiny of service to the divine. Perhaps that is why the religion of Islam—‘submission’—had so many historical arguments with their Hebrew brothers before I came along. Perhaps that is why you were drawn to that rebellious house. My chosen daughter, my dissatisfied Israel. If you would but learn to submit! Then, you would find peace.”
The block letters of that old Tucson mosque upon her liberation from Nogales: “HAPPINESS IS SUBMISSION TO GOD.” Her Father patted her shoulder, then turned to answer the knock of prearranged guards upon the door. “Seeing how restless you are,” he told her on the way, “I’ll make sure your crucifix is prepared by sunup. Nine nights may seem like a lot, but we can’t have you getting into even more trouble, now, can we?”
XI
The Plight of the General
Within her first hours hanging from that cross, Dominia’s thoughts turned so often to her human childhood that she began to think this was that famed pre-death flash of life before the eyes. Perhaps it was not the rapid-clip flashback she had always pictured. Perhaps, rather than the snapping back of the mind to the beginning of the next iteration, it was only the stultifying cycle of treacherous memories churned by the sorrowing ego near the grave.
Once, many years ago (oh, so many years!) when the General had been a human girl named “Morgan,” she was a morbid thing. To a child still so close to the fresh side of the Void that the realities of existence seemed more dreamlike and unreal than the concept of nothingness, death and its uncountable manifestations held profound intrigue. There were so many, seemingly benign ways in which one could die, or find oneself mutilated, or endure some other sudden shock of tragedy in this brave new world.
She had also, like many children around the age of five, been fascinated by those few forms of consciousness alteration available to small minds, namely: spinning in rapid circles until the house twisted upside down and she crashed in the middle of the living room to the sound of her mother’s criticism; or standing too quickly and stretching with too much vigor so as to produce that dizzying starburst behind her eyes; or hanging upside down over the arm of the couch until all the blood collected in her head and the room began to vibrate.
“Don’t do that too long, now,” her father (the real, lost one, not the capital-F fucker who stole the title) said to her one afternoon, not long after she had mentally applauded herself for beating her own “record” time.
“Why,” she had asked, before leaping to, “will I die?”
“You’d want to sit up before you were likely to die,” was the response from behind the slim glass tablet on which he perused the news with a slowly scrolling finger. “But, yes—if you stay like that too long, it’s possible to die.”
Young Morgan’s mind had turned in eager fascination to the question of how a person might look after dying in such a way. Would they bloat up like a big grape? That was what she had pictured at the time. A child’s cartoon. Not this.
Dominia had already pinpointed the places in her forehead where blood might eventually shoot out in little jets: mostly around her temple and cheekbones, but certainly from her eyes, which felt after only four hours as if they
would burst. Electrified manacles binding back her arms notwithstanding, the inversion had not been a totally unpleasant experience for the first twenty minutes. It wasn’t so bad, she told herself. She had one leg free—her left—and by means of this she was able to brace herself against the fifteen-foot-tall crucifix and do something like a sit-up. Held for a time, this relieved a bit of the pressure of her eyes, and gave her an opportunity to think of something to do. Of course—it also exhausted her, so she needed do so sparingly.
To be honest, if not for the electrified manacles, she’d be slipping into the Void. A small current would have been beneficial in this regard, but threshold technology could produce one with a voltage and respective current high enough to stop a human heart. The physical pain therefore prevented the escape of a Lazarene into the Void, as attention was fundamental in their flight. But there wasn’t much to be done about this collar of hers, any more than there was much to be done about escape, or about—well, anything.
Because the reality was that the infamous General Dominia di Mephitoli was going to die.
There was no going back. She understood that with new clarity when strung up by her leg, which she already could no longer feel but for the occasional needle-buzz when it jostled with her efforts to sit up. One leg free or not, this movement was no easy feat: she had been given a stiff leather bodice to protect her modesty, and a one-legged pair of like trousers. This allowed her—along with any visitors—to monitor the intensifying purple tone of flesh visible through the straps of the harness that clamped her thigh, supported her knee, and extended up the length of her shin, where it was attached by the ankle piece to its swinging tether. Its black coloration served as the frame of a vile window to the status of the doomed limb.
Yet, it was not just her limb that was doomed. Her heart was as fixed as the molecules of the diamond she had been allowed to keep, draped around her wrist rather than her neck so that it would not fall but be forever there, with her, while she endured. (And promote a healthy current in case of electrocution!) There was nothing the Hierophant could offer to tempt her to his side: nothing he could say to enlist her in putting down the Market or squelching the Hunters before tying Earth up for him in a big silk bow. Not after seeing Cassandra, and not after seeing what he had done to Lavinia. He knew that, which was why she was here.
There were other reasons, too. Given nine days to work on the softhearted princess, the General may well have accomplished her goals of liberating the most brainwashed girl in the world. The Holy Father knew that as well as he knew Dominia had no intention of helping him take Jerusalem, or Lazarus, or any damn thing ever again.
The situation, which had been entropic from the start, could only hasten its degradation from this point. Somewhere in the castle—in the rest of those cell-like guest rooms, further cementing René’s position as honorary prisoner—her friends awaited their fates. So did Theodore, that useless asshole, although she supposed she couldn’t be mad about it. Letting himself get captured again—he wanted to go home. It was her fault for thinking he could change. Disappointing he couldn’t, of course, but it wasn’t like he’d made any promises, or anything.
Who had been delivered to the Hierophant? Which friends sat in the castle? She had gotten to know so many people in the human world while on active duty for the first time in almost a hundred years: Which of these had died, and which yet lived?
It was not very long, to her surprise, before she was given partial answer. After she had begun to understand her sit-ups did more harm than good by not only exhausting her, but bruising her ribs against the cage of the stiff bodice, she succumbed to her hanging condition. At least she could savor the odd wiggle of her free leg. How long did they seriously intend for her (or her eyes) to last in this state? Lamb, she wasn’t going to lose her sight, was she? Not again! As though he knew her thoughts, the Hierophant picked that moment to enter, midconversation, with none other than René Ichigawa, whose restored eyes widened as they rested on the chapel’s ceremonial centerpiece.
“Dominia,” he automatically said, while the Hierophant assured him, “Oh, yes: which is why I brought you here.”
Ever given to inappropriate cheer, her Father waggled his hand at Dominia in a finger-wave on his way to collect the tall ladder against the matroneum. “You see, René, poor Dominia has gotten herself into a bit of trouble—nothing good ever comes of snooping around, you know—and, being her friend, I thought you might like to help her out.”
“Help her how?” The professor warily assessed the General, who was not interested in wasting words before the Hierophant.
“Crucifixion and suspension are useful tortures, you see—not because of the convenience offered when bleeding a corpse or preparing to amputate. The true cruelty of crucifixion comes from its asphyxiation. Not breathing very comfortably by now, are you, Dominia?”
When she did not respond, he paused to lay a broad smile on her. Then, he directed his attention back to his guest. “In upright crucifixion, prisoners exhaust themselves by having to push their chest up in order to catch their breath. Hard enough as it is! The eventual cause of death is almost always asphyxiation. In this case, however, additional pressure is being put on our good General’s lungs as a result of gravity’s involvement in her predicament. She knows Peter’s pain now, in part. But we need her to last nine days, or she’ll miss the New Year’s celebration! And martyrdom, miracle that it is, can only battle gravity so long. So, I’ve come up with an idea. Every twelve or so hours, I shall send someone in—or come by, myself—to help her breathe. Yes, that’s right, Dominia. Your friends, who love you so dearly, will be given an opportunity to prove their love for up to an hour at a time by getting on the ladder and holding you upright. As far as they can, anyway. You’ll get a chance to breathe easily and get a bit of blood flowing back into that right leg, since we can’t have it rotting off before Cicero claims his prize—and your friends will get to see you one last time before their deaths. Isn’t that generous of me?”
Her dry lips, swollen with blood, at last suffered themselves to part. “Hoping we’ll crack? Talk about something vital in front of you?”
Shrugging, he said, “Your operation has no vitality left. What does it matter if you do or don’t discuss your hopeless dreams? The result will be the same. Enjoy your hour, Ichigawa-sensei.” With a self-satisfied little bow and an eyebrow wiggle for Dominia, the Hierophant whisked off through the nave and out the chapel doors.
Alone with the General (more or less), Ichigawa asked, “How did you stand that guy for three hundred years?”
“You know how it is with family.” Dominia left it at that, using her free leg to swing herself aside and give René a chance to place the ladder against her cross. “You don’t seem like much of a heights man to me.”
“I’m not afraid of heights. I’m just not sure about ladders.” Easing his way up a few rungs, René got level with her head and then, after some consideration, looped an arm around her shoulders and said, “Sorry if this is awkward to you.”
“Don’t worry,” she assured him while he folded her up toward her leg, much as she had been doing with her sit-ups. Each careful rung higher, he pushed her uncomfortably up the length of the crucifix before him while she continued, “I’m completely past the point of caring about a concept like dignity. I just appreciate your help.”
“Any—time.” Huffing, René scaled the ladder to its height until, in the most painful relief she’d ever experienced, Dominia’s body folded up past her legs. Blood—cherished blood!—crashed into her right leg with such a vivid, physical drop that the General cried out.
René asked, “Are you all right?”
Through a pair of stinging tears, she laughed.
After a few minutes’ shifting and one occasion of almost dropping her, René determined that, by gripping the crossbar of the crucifix with that arm that cradled Dominia, he could support both himself and her with relative surety. “An hour, huh,” he said, and s
he snorted.
“Poor you. Try twelve. Try nine days.”
“Look, I’m sorry. But I’m trying to help you.”
Agitated, the General studied the leg that, shade by shade, faded to a grayer variant of its usual tone. A step up from the raisin color into which it had settled. “Sorry to be short. I just feel…helpless.”
“I can imagine.”
“Did you hear about anybody from our side being brought in?”
“Oh, yeah.” Dominia turned her head enough to see René’s bafflement. “But I don’t—well, I don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?”
“They’re reporting weird things about the Battle for Jerusalem. I caught something on the news yesternight—actually, right after you left my room—about some kind of unidentified object plummeting over the Lady’s library and taking out a bunch of Hierophant soldiers…” While Dominia struggled to avoid any external expression of relief, love, joy at the mere thought of the E4 returning from the Ergosphere, René sweetened it by adding, “And then something about people coming out—like a saint the martyrs are superstitious about? I don’t know. No offense, but war makes people crazy, and I think they were seeing things. But whatever it was that came out of the…crashed plane, I guess they’ve started to call it, it caused the martyr forces to retreat and regroup.”
