by M F Sullivan
“What destroys it?”
“The death of Lazarus. Lazarus is the sun around which the Earth of the Lady rotates, and when his light is snuffed, She has no means by which to see, so he must be made again. But, to make him again, She has to make the universe.”
“Lazarus is really a person?” asked Dominia, unable to open her eyes against her fatigue, but conscious enough to be distressed by the fleeting notion that maybe René had lied to her about everything. Maybe all the old murmured human legends were the stories she’d believed them to be. Miki, however, soothed her.
“Lazarus is a person, yes: but he is also a pillar for the world. It is said he was only human once, the first time the universe was created. It is said that your Father stole the protein from him and used it to his own, unholy ends. That Lazarus is the Protomartyr, and the one to whom the people should have always looked. He has not been a human since the first time the world was new. Created a martyr, he dies a martyr, too; and when he dies, the world begins again. It is why he stays so far from mainstream humanity—why he is capable of such great miracles but has allowed his name to slip into obscurity, echoed on the sidelines of the Abrahamic books and worshiped by the cult of the Lazerenes.”
“But why? Why is Lazarus tied to the death of the universe?”
“Lazarus is a miracle worker. This Lazarus of whom we speak is a great man, but humble, and so he took his name from one who was saved by a messiah, rather than one who did the saving. The miracle of Lazarus is that he saved even himself from death: saved himself through Her. The first time he died, the Lady emerged from his blood to revive him, and She seeks to make from him Her King. She seeks to purify the world of martyrs and set all things right again. For, much as he was responsible for the release of martyrdom upon the world, so, too, must he be the one to end it.”
“Then why hasn’t he ended it already?”
“That, I cannot answer. Perhaps because he has seen it all before, and knows that the Lady’s way is not the true solution to the problem.”
“Because it will all happen again, the next time he dies and the universe is created?”
“Aren’t you a wise woman.” The shamisen’s twanging stopped and a light flickered off; Dominia, too tired to lift her head from the wall, accepted the blanket that Miki draped over her. “Only Lazarus knows why he does what he does; only the Lady knows why She does what She does; only you know, Dominia, why you do what you do. Worry about yourself, and let the gods handle themselves.”
X
Mass Hysteria
Dominia must have been tired: that night was the first time in over a month she managed to sleep longer than three or four hours. And that included those spells of unconsciousness. Best, it was a concrete block of sleep that hosted no bad dreams. Almost strange to come to under the comforter feeling refreshed, instead of panicked. No traumatic memories unfolded themselves in a rapid fractal of pain. Yet, a weird shame lurked in that. Half of her wished to never think of Cassandra at all, ever again; the other half was desperate to keep her alive or re-invoke her being through sheer willpower, however impossible this might have been. But it was all impossible, wasn’t it? Even the dog, who twitched in his sleep, was impossible. Miki snored on her bed, tangled in her sheets and sweaty with the alcohol processed by her human body. There was Cassandra’s far sweatier forehead, her sweaty palms, as she waited in the Family doctor office— the Family doctor, of course, being Cicero, as partial to playing doctor as to playing priest.
“A rather naughty girl, aren’t you.” He checked Cassandra’s pulse under Dominia’s hawkish scrutiny.
“Has anybody ever told you how creepy you are?” the new martyr asked. Cicero laughed, the spitting image, sight and sound, of the Hierophant.
“Try not to take offense. I think of you as a child, of sorts. You would do well to think of yourself as such, too.”
As Cassandra shot Dominia’s amused expression a far more rueful look, Cicero selected a tube of gel for the ultrasound. “You are, though, quite ill-behaved to have brought an unwitting party for the ride. Lie back, there we are.” While Cassandra obeyed, her hand stretched out, and Dominia realized belatedly that her wife wanted her to hold it. Many long days the General had been up, dealing with Cassandra’s sickness and talking about the circumstances that had brought them to that point. Cassandra’s lover had been killed by a martyr, and she then learned (through the miracles of that same over-the-counter pregnancy test that had informed her of the bittersweet conception) that the baby had a genetic defect: a particularly unfriendly one that would leave the child dead in utero and threaten the mother’s life without unaffordable genetic treatments. Even with those treatments, no amount of money would have guaranteed the infant. The baby was all she had left of her lover—all she had in her life—and she had nothing to lose in martyrdom. Everything to gain.
Cicero swept up the small wireless wand of the portable ultrasound device. “How has your nausea been?”
“Violent,” answered Cassandra; Dominia added, “She can’t keep anything down.”
“Well, she will need to try. She is, as they say, ‘eating for two.’”
In one sweet second, Cassandra’s eyes lit, her head lifted, and she asked, “It’s alive?”
Even Cicero’s smile was genuine enough to crinkle his features. “Yes, she’s fine.”
“Oh, ‘she’! A girl.” Those beautiful eyes welled up in tears, and Cassandra shone with a smile that inspired a matching one in Dominia. As though it were her child. “I’m so glad she’s okay. Thank God, thank God—alive.”
“Yes, the blood test showed her to be a girl; physical differences should just be developing. Your instinct to turn toward martyrdom rather than flee east for refugee medical care, as so many women do, is quite interesting. Has Dominia told you the true history”—he glanced from the screen—“of the sacred protein? We keep it at the ‘gift from God’ level for the common man. Humans and martyrs who only go to Church to receive the stabilizing blood of the Lamb.”
Cassandra shook her head, and Cicero spoke without looking up from the laptop with which he printed pictures. “Quite a long time ago, there was no such thing as genetic modification. This was when I and my brother, Elijah, were mere humans. As men of science, we saw the world’s problems and wished to solve them. Foremost among these problems were mortality, cancer, genetic defects—all those things handled in the medical field, which, it became apparent in time, could be fought with a combination gene editing and various other therapies. He and I studied a protein that compares the DNA of foreign bacteria to stored RNA to better identify and eliminate biological threats—a miracle of a thing, a genetic pair of scissors still used to treat humans unwilling to take the steps to immortality. But it was mortality that we sought to cure through the protein. There were, after all, animals in the natural world that went without aging. Animals that survived in the vacuum of space. There was a cure for everything, given the protein and the correct RNA. We were on the cusp of something most grand; and then, one day, the Hierophant came knocking on our door. He looked frighteningly like me, and explained he had come from Acetia, a world far away, to bring us the answer for which my brother and I, of the whole human race, had most feverishly searched. He martyred us that day. Humans prefer to teach that the protein was developed in some lab, and it is true that my brother and I never would have become the first martyrs of Earth without our scientific background; but, you see, we had to rely on the grace of God for the answer we required.”
“I had always heard that the Hierophant brought the protein from his alien world,” said skeptical Cassandra, accepting her first—and only—baby pictures with a soft smile. “I guess I thought it sounded kind of…odd.”
“He was attracted by our discovery. The martyrs of his world knew Earth was ready for the protein, and may have discovered it alone if not for the intervention of the Lord’s highest servants. The Hierophant, His high priest on Acetia, was sent to instruct us in its use.
That is why the blood of Lazarenes is forbidden; his protein was synthesized in a lab. It is not a gift from God but a base creation of the world.”
“And—you, and Elijah—you thought this was worthwhile when the Hierophant told you that you’d need to resort to cannibalism?”
“Oh, I seldom resort to it, as I am always within my brother’s comforting proximity. But I choose to engage in it, because it is the highest pleasure that our Father’s world may offer.” While Cassandra shuddered at the merriment in his black eyes, he added, “Most martyrs, as we did at that time, consider it a small price to pay for salvation. You must also agree, Cassandra, or I would not find you thus.”
“You weren’t put off by the alien business?”
“Certainly not. How thrilling! What vindication it was to meet him, evidence that our paths were divinely inspired! Like having a child who stood up right away, walking and talking on day one. We had never considered the existence of aliens, let alone that they should be servants of the divine; but it only makes sense that higher intelligence should have a higher standing of Eternity.”
While Dominia’s wife frowned at the images of her baby, Cicero patted her arm. “I think you should be proud, and excited. Two thousand years is a long time, and this has never been allowed to happen. The occasions that almost slipped through the cracks have not started this well.”
Dominia, irritated, slipped in with, “She’s puking day and night. You call that ‘starting well’?”
“Pregnancy is a difficult time. I recommend eating a lot of crackers, drinking something carbonated, staying off your feet. Aren’t you lucky to have such a doting wife!”
“I am— So, the protein is fixing my baby?”
“Editing her as we speak: clipping here, rearranging there, adding this and that.”
The mother-to-be found, after brief struggle, a way to phrase a difficult question. “Will she still be my baby?”
“Your baby, a dead man’s baby, and the Lord’s baby.” Cicero crossed himself, chuckling, on his way out of the office.
Yes. A dead man’s baby. Now, having lost her, Dominia understood why Cassandra had been so desperate to hold on to one thing—anything—that contained part of the person she’d loved. It was why she now stood in Miki’s tiny suite and quietly shifted the lid of some luggage in hopes of finding the diamond. Somehow, though Dominia’s sigh on waking, her stretch on standing, and her footsteps across the room had not been enough to awaken the prostitute, the rustle of her clothes in foreign hands proved better than an alarm. Miki bolted upright and shoved away the blanket without a thought for her modesty, then recognized the General.
“Oh, it’s you.” She fell once more and yanked her coverings back while tucking her drool-soaked pillow into the crook of her neck. “You’re not going to find it.”
“‘Her.’” The General grimaced at her reflexive correction, but doubled down. “You don’t even know what I’m looking for. I might be trying to rob you. Maybe I already found it.”
“Of course you’re trying to rob me, but you won’t find it, and you haven’t found it already because the diamond hasn’t even been in this room.”
“Where is she?”
“Beats me.” Her rear wiggled for an emphasis lost on the fuming martyr.
“You mean you don’t even know where she is?”
“Actually”—she smacked dry lips and cracked her arid eyes open enough to look at the clock—“I don’t think she’s even on this train anymore.”
A chill whipped over Dominia at the skipping of her heart. “Did you sell her?”
“No, no, of course not. I sent her somewhere for safekeeping. She’s on her way to the Lady.”
Impotent adrenaline flooded her trembling limbs, but that may have been the protein going to town on her DNA as her body entered starvation mode. Whatever it was, Dominia barely heard Miki’s words over the intrusive images of Cassandra’s remains in the negligent hands of some stranger, headed someplace Dominia didn’t even know, for purposes occult in every definition of the word. She remembered the unavailable prostitutes she had seen near her location when making the appointment with Miki. Cassandra was with one or both; the inactive dots would be gone if she looked now. Losing grip on her temper, the martyr strode to the bedside of the human and gave her shoulders such a shake that Basil awoke with a soft bark. “Why would you do that? What the fuck were you thinking?”
“It’s the only way to guarantee you’ll bring Lazarus to the Lady. She’s being treated with the utmost respect, don’t worry. Do you think remains belong swinging around your neck while you run all over creation?”
“Now’s not the time to develop a sense of moral decency. Who’s to say I don’t just kill you?” She examined the bruises developed on Miki’s throat and narrowed her eyes. “Finish the job René started. I’m a fool to trade him for you, anyway: the Hunters don’t deal with women. René’s intimacy with them was integral to finding Lazarus.”
“We’ll find him.”
“How?”
“You just think the Hunters don’t deal with women. The truth is, they’re more than a secret club of jihadists sitting in a bunch of tents outside of Jerusalem, in the jungles of Brazil, and working with yakuza. They’re everywhere. Why do you think you were headed to Kabul in the first place? There are less-extreme extremists who are part of their stupid brigade, and those less-extreme extremists are more flexible when it comes to talking like a civilized human…or putting down money to get laid.” As Dominia relaxed her hold, Miki stumbled up in search of her robe. “I know a guy who can tell us where Lazarus is. At the least, he has the resources to find out.”
“And he’ll do this because…”
“As I said, his bosses are way more extremist than he is. You think it would sail with them if they found out he’d solicited a prostitute? You’re half right about that sort and women. To the Hunters, Red Market workers are as bad as a martyr.” With a scoff of derision, Miki lifted her arms and sent her hair pluming in great jet-colored streams from the maroon cotton of her yukata. “It’s like, the tiny penis club, or something. Look at René! Whining like that to save himself. Makes me sick. I’m sure he’s going to tattle to the Hunters— We need to find Lazarus as soon as possible.”
The General felt almost bad, but Miki was right: René was, for lack of a more eloquent phrase, a little shit. Responsible for the flight of a great many refugees or no, he could only be considered so noble when associating with even the lowest echelons of a terrorist organization. It wasn’t so much that he deserved was he got; it was that what he got was such a straight-line consequence of his spineless nature that an excess of empathy for him was out of the question. “Maybe you were right, and we should have put him out of his misery. If they buy into the story that I’m a rogue terrorist responsible for the atrocities on the ship and in the hospital, some loose martyr mass-murdering humans across the globe, any agreement we might have had to peacefully exchange information is as good as ruined. If they don’t, well—there was nothing in the first place to stop them from betraying me, and there isn’t anything now.”
“But, with the power of technology, anything is possible! Like I said, my guy’s a better solution than risking a conversation with the Hunters’ higher-ups. Kahlil’s okay, you’ll see. A bit misogynistic, but all Hunters are. He doesn’t mean it; I’m reeducating him. Anyway, if he’s going to keep my mouth shut”—she shrugged slim shoulders as Basil scrambled up and, apropos of apparently nothing, wandered into the hall—“he’s going to have to do me a favor. We should be there in an hour: I told him we’d take a cab from the station.”
“What’s he do?”
“Oh, he helped found one of the biggest tech start-ups in Kabul—for whatever that’s worth, fast as that industry moves!—but a couple years ago— Sh.” The human lifted a hand almost pale as her face while the front door of the suite slid open. Her dark eyes highlighted by alertness, Miki glanced into Dominia’s face, then let her gaze slid
e toward the bathroom—and the corpse inside. Dominia’s brain churned. Was the dog’s face clean? She hadn’t paid attention since waking up. Why had a porter ignored the “Do Not Disturb” light? Had some complaint been lodged? If so, why hadn’t they called over the intercom and asked to be let in? Why did her heart beat with the fast insistence that it was someone she knew and didn’t want to see? Not Cicero, please. But Basil barked a happy note, and the familiar, carefully cultivated chime of an airy voice sang, “Oh, aren’t you a handsome boy!” And Dominia felt a deep kind of horror.
It seemed ever more that the General lived in the worst possible scenario. She almost would have preferred Cicero. Saint Valentinian, himself. Anyone, really, but Lavinia.
With a grim expression designed to anchor Miki in place, Dominia edged down the short hall. Its tiny length increased to an incomprehensible stretch that revealed, second by Zeno’s subdivided second, the tip of Basil’s curling tail; then it unveiled his fuzzy black haunch, which was matched, by pure chance, to the lace of the elaborate gown worn by the woman who petted him. The smile on her pearly face and the unyielding gold of her hair seemed bright as those portions of the border collie’s fur that were white, and the DIOX-I’s box resembled less a digital affectation than a halo. Dear Lavinia—now was not the time.
“Oh, Dominia, I’m very happy you’re alive, but I’m just as pleased to meet this handsome chap! Yes, hello, yes, hello, aren’t you sweet, how are you.” While the dog’s tail beat a delighted rhythm against the marble floor and once or twice threatened to upend the telephone stand, Lavinia turned her Marianas eyes toward her older sister and hugged him to her breast. “But, oh, Dominia, I am so happy you’re alive.”
“So am I, mostly. Did he send you here?”
“Yes and no. I’ve begged Daddy to tell me where you were! I pestered him and pestered him ever since that ship ran aground in the Port of Kyoto, and finally he told me you were on the Light Rail, and I’ve never been on the Light Rail before!” Her vast child’s eyes sparkled bright with her breathless delight as she released the dog to spread her hands. “It’s so beautiful, isn’t it, Dominia? Like a big gold snake popping in and out of its tunnel. And it’s funny to see how the foreigners think we dress and act.”
