by M F Sullivan
Yes. But beware, General. To enter even the daytime Ergosphere without one’s body is a treacherous proposition. Without physical root, as without consciousness, the soul is as good as drunk or drugged, or worse. A flailing ego, run rampant without its guards.
“So a black-out drunk is a total suppression of consciousness in favor of rampant egoism,” observed the General, turning away from the crucifix. “Explains a lot of my own drunk behavior. Did he mean what he said? Is Lavinia really okay?”
You may see for yourself, as it pleases you.
The nodding General intended to step toward the doors and instead found herself propelled forward. It was as if she floated in the womb of outer space. Astonished, she rose to the high ceiling and then, truly ghostlike, wafted through the wall of the chapel—to the office, where Cicero’s right-hand man busily arranged El Sacerdote’s vestments for the ceremony. Farther down the hall, in the gallery, humans decorated for the party to follow on New Year’s Eve that Noctisthor. If Dominia had her way, that party would never happen. The year 4044 CE/1999 AL would ring in with the death of the Hierophant, or the death of Dominia, or the deaths of both: but there would be no cause for celebration on a day bound to mark the beginning of a culture’s destruction. The question was, would the destruction be of martyrs, or of mankind?
It was not an easy decision to make. While flying through the castle in pursuit of Lavinia’s chambers, the phantom General saw so many martyrs along the way. Plenty she knew, in passing if not as friends. For the most part, these were just regular people. Stuffy rich people, but still people. The average martyr had no hand in the hunt and slaughter of humans, had no part in the genocide orchestrated by the Hierophant. That genocide Dominia had supported and helped him envision. Globally speaking, the average martyr was much like those in the town of Elsinore, and less like Dominia: and though she wished to write off the desires of adult humans to be martyred, she recognized now that these were but people with passion such for life that they were willing to trade every scrap of their humanity for a chance to enjoy it just a little longer. They were artists and friends and lovers and siblings, children and parents.
But the humans were all of that, too. And long as the Hierophant was in charge of European and UF society, there could be no chance for humans to live in peace. Not without their rights and lives infringed upon by the mere existence of their predatory counterparts. There was hope, the General believed, that martyrs could change, and the world would improve—but this cancerous growth in the brain of the global organism needed to be removed as soon as possible, or the whole creature was liable to die.
At last, in lonely Lavinia’s chambers, the General found the girl, while better treated, in no small amount of trouble for her decision to visit Dominia. Who knew what the truth had provoked the princess into doing or saying? At the peaks of her tantrums, Lavinia was capable of frightening behavior. But now, like most girls who’d worn themselves out with a tantrum, she cried in her bedroom. Alarmingly, Basil was not with her; nor was the girl in the mood to rail to herself in convenient Shakespearean monologue about the injustices that had befallen her, so as to give the General some easy insight into what had happened before—or what would happen next. The watching shade could only take solace in this vision of the girl alive and well, unhurt in anything but spirit. That ghostly hand of the General lay upon Lavinia’s golden curls, and, as though feeling it, the princess’s tears ebbed to a few indignant hiccups.
“I know you feel betrayed,” said Dominia—sure, if nothing else, Livvy’s soul heard. “But it’s because you see you have a chance to do the truly right thing after such a long time of being told you were already doing the right thing. And you will do the truly right thing. I know.”
She had to.
As the General was about to leave, she noted through the wall a most curious thing—aside from the notion that she could…well, not see through walls, for she also saw the walls. But her senses were beyond their usual limits, and strange effects were undeniable. Plain as if her consciousness mimicked the omniscient, camera-style sight of a dream, she watched merry Teddy stroll through the emptied suite to knock upon the door. The girl, anxious and not knowing her Father visited Dominia’s uninhabited form, called, “Who is it?”
“Someone who wants to brighten up your night,” sang Theodore. While Dominia restrained a spectral eye roll, this announcement elicited a gasp of joy in her sister, who sprang from bed to throw open the door and dive into del Medico’s arms.
“Oh, Theo! I’m so glad you’re home. Just knowing you’re back in this castle makes me feel secure. If it wasn’t for knowing you were safe, I—oh, what a state I’d be in!”
“I wasn’t ever in that much danger…” Nice to hear him admit it now! “Once we were out of the plane, anyway. What’s the matter, though? I can’t remember the last time I heard your rooms so empty.”
With an anxious nibble of her lip, the girl studied the reading nook where the General’s spirit happened to hover. “I sent my friends away for the evening. I just can’t bear it… You saw Dominia, didn’t you?”
Theodore nodded, his face full of uncharacteristic tension. “A few days ago, but I saw her.”
“I wasn’t supposed to, but I did… I thought Daddy would be mad, but we got to talking, instead. Theo—Theo, did you know Cassandra was my mother?”
Shock, pure and clear as the ringing of any bell, reverberated through Theodore’s features before it faded to anxiety based on the weight of his conversation with the General. “No. Dominia told me only after—the kidnapping.”
“So you didn’t know…” Relief visible in her blue eyes, Lavinia caught Theodore’s hands in hers and frowned in contemplation. “I don’t think anybody knew except Daddy and Lambie and Ninny. It was Ninny, she…she was sore at Cassandra for lying to her. But now she—” Her lips trembled, a look that shot the General through the heart. “You don’t think Daddy means to kill her, does he?”
“I won’t let him! He’s been out of hand lately, that man.”
“You can’t say that about Daddy.” Even now, Lavinia’s voice hushed with concern. Theodore, glancing around, guided her to sit upon the edge of the bed. There, he held her delicate artificial hands in his doting, oblivious ones. It was only beside Lavinia in this way that the General recognized the slight dishevelment of his otherwise vainly kept hair and clothes; and she certainly had never seen him defy, or imply he intended to defy, the Hierophant’s will. Yet, this he did when he leaned in.
“He’s just a martyr, Lavinia. Just like you and me. Not some alien sent by God! I can’t even begin to tell you all the things that have happened to me, all the things I’ve learned. But…” He lifted his hands out of hers to move them at a rapid clip, and the General recognized the sign language in an instant; it was that same she and Lazarus had used on their first meeting. Elsinore alone was home to quite a few deaf human slaves punished for gossip, theft, or eavesdropping. Some martyrs even had all their slaves mutilated from the start. Dominia never thought that was right: privacy was the price you paid when your commodity could speak and hear. But the price was compounded, because Lavinia had learned the silent language of these unlucky slaves, and Theodore, if he had not learned it in school, would have no doubt learned it just to speak to her in private. Assuming she didn’t pressure him into it, desperate for a friend who wasn’t a paid servant liable to run off to her real boss at the first whiff of thought crime.
I’ve seen some things you wouldn’t believe, bunny. Dominia tried not to gag at the private choice of sign to avoid the cumbersome spelling of “Lavinia.” She focused on his words. And I’ve experienced crazy things, but the long and short of it is that Father tried to kill me!
Once the shock wore from her face, the girl signed, If that’s true, why are you still alive? A fair enough question, especially of Theodore, who audibly stammered in annoyance before going on in silence.
It’s—complicated. It seemed like it was a half-heart
ed attempt. He also “playfully” excommunicated me, but I haven’t heard him mention it since we got back here. I think he’s just hoping I’ll think I was crazy.
But when was this, Lavinia continued to press. Before you got kidnapped?
After, he let slip, and he and Dominia winced in time. Like I signed, it’s complicated.
That’s not possible, though. After you were kidnapped, Daddy was already here at home. Matter of fact, he hasn’t been away in months! How could he have threatened you?
I don’t think it’s safe to explain, Theodore signed, much to Lavinia’s exasperation. In that moment, the General sympathized with her more fully than ever. Dominia had, herself, been confounded left and right by constant refusals to enlighten her. Even Miki Soto seemed to have known more than she. Now, she could not help but think her enforced ignorance was a kind of karmic retribution orchestrated for her behavior toward Lavinia. And, of course, Cassandra.
Pained, the General looked away—and her keen senses, unhampered by material walls, detected the figure of Cicero looming down the distant hall.
What to do? She could not interrupt them, not as Lavinia signed, If it’s unsafe, if he’s planning something against you, you should flee!
For once in his life finding some bravery, the (former) Governor of the United Front expressed, But I came back for you. I couldn’t leave you alone here, because I—I love you, Lavinia.
Awe passed over the girl’s face in a tender crimson wave, and the General felt terrible guilt. As if it wasn’t bad enough being voyeuristic party to a private moment the princess had so long awaited! Dominia had to find a way to break it up before—Lamb forbid—Cicero did. Now they embraced, and it was as sweet as it was ill-timed. Violent panic rose over the specter. She tried to sweep a vase of white tulips from a nearby table like some horror movie ghost only to find her powers to interact with the material world were limited. Perhaps nonexistent. What could she do? How could she alert them?
Another knock answered her prayers and startled even her, for she had not seen this body move through space toward Lavinia’s chamber. Both would-be lovers tensed in cunicular anxiety before the princess stood to straighten her dress. Amid the rustle of fabric, Theodore tiptoed in the direction of her bathroom. “Come in,” she called when he was well out of sight, and the door opened to reveal—praise him!—none other than the Lamb. The ram-horned man assessed his daughter with the sort of bland expression he’d worn while remonstrating a far younger Dominia for things about which he had no personal concern, but which he knew were hot buttons for the Ciceros.
“Hello, Livvy.” His eyes trailed not in the direction of the bathroom but in the very deliberate direction of Dominia’s spiritual body. As his head turned back toward that bathroom to say, “Hello, Theodore,” the General saw, as if in double exposure, a second jaw and mouth upon the Lamb that ran in sluggish time with the first. A spectral jaw that said, “Hello, Dominia,” before catching up to merge again with its partner.
While Theodore leaned into sight from the bathroom, the Lamb told Lavinia, “Just thought I’d come chat with you before Cicero fetches you for dress rehearsal…your Father will meet you there.”
The General drew the Lamb’s split attention toward her spirit once more. “Was it the horns that kept me from seeing you through the wall?”
“No end to their utility,” said his second mouth.
Meanwhile, Theodore shared an anxious glance with Lavinia. “Is Cicero already here?”
The Lamb said, “In about ninety seconds.”
Face rapt with horror, Lavinia looked at the Governor and, then, at her closet. “Get in there,” she said, not just leading him into the walk-in space—more like a hallway used to store clothes—but cramming him, with those too-powerful arms, into a mess of chiffon and silk and lace hanging from the left set of shelves. “Stay quiet, Theo. Oh! I’m sorry. Leave when they’re gone. I’ll see you at the performance, at least, won’t I?”
“Of course! I wouldn’t miss it.”
The girl’s face glowed. Had Dominia ever known young love like that? She feared hers was a jaded brand before she’d even been kissed. Acute gratitude infused her body to know Lavinia was not so scarred. “Will you keep her safe?” The disembodied General asked this of the Lamb, whose physical eyes again traced over her spectral form before focusing on Lavinia’s bookshelves.
“Nobody is safe until you’ve killed your Father.”
“Why are you helping me,” she pressed. His gaze glazed off into infinity.
“I hate to see you upset, Lavinia,” said the Lamb aloud. “Your Father can be obsessive to the point of destruction…and so can Cicero. I know because he’s been that way with me my whole life. We’re special, you and I—in different ways. And if he can’t use what’s special, then he doesn’t want to know it exists.”
“I thought you loved Daddy,” said the sheepish girl. The Lamb smiled.
“Of course I do. But that’s the hard part of loving an evil person.”
“What’s that?”
“Figuring out what to do when you realize that all along, you’ve been good.”
Cicero knocked upon the door and, much as Dominia had with René, did not tarry for answer from within. Rather, he opened it immediately, chiming, “Time for the theater, my pet! Are you ready for the final dress rehearsal? I simply cannot wait.”
With the tensest smile the General had ever seen her wear, Lavinia offered her hand. “At last, my servant has arrived with my royal litter. Let us hence!” With a wave of her free hand, the girl seemed as though to laugh, but the sound rang hollow. Cicero, too self-absorbed to note his little doll had feelings, simply smiled at the Lamb and played along with her.
Was Lavinia won? It was difficult to know, but Theodore’s position seemed certain. Dominia watched with relief as he crept into the vacated room, mopped his brow, and exited once he was sure the trio had left. Her friends had indeed come here of their free will, and Theodore had been a convenient means and reason by which to do that. She thought of the tanques that had brought them in and could not help but wonder how deep the operation went. Had they thrown the Battle for Jerusalem? No wonder they didn’t tell her what they planned, if that was the case. She never would have agreed to it, ever. Call it stupid pride.
Still—what a relief to know the General still had an army behind her. A small one, and described as “ragtag” by only the kindest, gentlest critics…but, an army. She had to consider—had to hope—they had something planned for this occasion.
In the castle tearooms, the General traveled cell to cell and confirmed the presence of her friends. She confirmed, too, that Basil had been given his own cell. This meant it was possible her Father did not realize the dog and the magician were bodily separated. (She tried not to distract herself with visions of the Hierophant mistakenly lecturing a border collie as though it were his nemesis, but she did need to laugh at something.) Lazarus and Farhad were still well and alive, and truly, Gethsemane was nowhere to be found.
Perhaps Dominia was better off investigating elsewhere—like the stage meant for the ill-fated play, with its storm-bringing rockets and its vast orchestra pit. The Elizabethan open theater, off on the southern side of Elsinore, rested upon the artificial isthmus of a glorious, darkly wooded boardwalk thrusting out amid the cold Baltic Sea. The stage itself was separated from the audience by a trough of water allowed to lap through for a bit of scenic interest; but aside from that, once one entered the confines of the reception area, the open-air theater’s only relationship with the ocean was the view through its lobby windows. How she longed to see it from above! But it was as she contemplated flying off to admire it that she finally felt something, anything: her Father’s brisk pats against her earthly cheek as he said, “Dominia? Dominia, my girl, have you even been listening to me at all? Are you there, Dominia?”
“Not really.” Her response was automatic. In the nauseating blink of an eye, she found herself held “upright.” Bloo
d flowed into her legs and, praise the Lady, she remained unable to feel anything of substance. “I guess my thoughts have been elsewhere.”
“I would encourage mindfulness, given your circumstances. These are the final hours you will have this leg. You ought to cherish them.”
“Not like I can do anything with it, can I? It’s already dead.”
“I suppose, if that’s the way you insist on looking at things. But a more optimistic mind-set would go a long way. What is death but the opportunity for rebirth? You know that as well as all martyrs. When this is done, and you are unburdened by your guilt, you will have a new, pure life stretching ahead. Won’t it be a relief!”
Nothing he gave her would ever be relief. She would accept no gifts from him if they both somehow survived. All he gave was evil—poisonous. He had existed at least four thousand years and in that time managed to, with varying degrees of control, undo two iterations of Earth. There had to be some way to stop him or his duplicate from destroying another.
Muddled though her thoughts were, it seemed to the General that the best way to stop him was to stop Cicero’s transmigration. But how? From her position, how?
Her friends. She would have to rely on them. Had to hope against hope that somehow, improbably, something would go so right that it didn’t matter how wrong everything else was. But how difficult it was to be so helpless! Helplessness was a plague on the senses, the psyche. Its cloak whipped her back to that awful instant of Cassandra’s death; it made her feel as she had when, a little girl, she awoke to find her family on the verge of ending. There was nothing worse than helplessness. If it was true that the best ending to all of this would leave her alive with her wife, then, by the Lady, the General would never let either one of them feel helpless again. She would do anything in her power—everything!—to stop that from happening. For three centuries, she had been beholden to her Father’s every whim. She had been his slave. Literally, his Bitch.
