His path to the Bureau of Ideology had been, to say the least, an unusual one. Born Kaylee Branson (and not Kylee), the journey to his present position involved more than dropping the “a” from his given name. Considering all of this, the Vice Minister sighed at the memories of physical and emotional pain, including the sex change operation he underwent at the tender age of fourteen. Born a bouncing nine pound girl, Kaylee had—at her own insistence—been altered to a boy.
Just before her operation, the fights with her parents had been fierce, but ultimately Kaylee had won out by making a case to them that she didn’t feel comfortable as a girl, that she had always longed to be a boy instead. Besides, she pointed out quite correctly with her logical mind, it was easier for a man to succeed in business and politics than for a woman to do so. And, contributing to her decision, she was quite tall for a girl anyway, well over six feet. Thus there were practical and emotional reasons for the transformation. Her parents had finally assented, and had agreed to pay for the surgery.
Thus in a short period of time, Kaylee became Kylee.
Kylee’s father Lawrence Branson, a school district commissioner, then secretly changed school computer records to make it appear that his son had gone through school, instead of his daughter. A couple of well-placed bribes ensued, resulting in the alteration of county statistics as well, showing that a boy named Kylee had been born to the Branson family. That left school mates who remembered the girl, but she had been a quiet person, easily forgotten, and such memories faded with time. Kaylee went away to a boy’s boarding school under her new name, never returning to her home town. . . .
The Vice Minister thought about such things every day. His sexuality was at the core of his being, affecting virtually every decision he made. Now, as he sat at the computer, he voice-activated a code known only to three people—the Acting Minister, the Vice Minister of Military Affairs, and himself. It was to be employed only in cases of extreme emergency, to prevent Bureau secrets from falling into the wrong hands. He heaved a deep, agitated sigh.
During his rise through the ranks of the Bureau of Ideology, Kylee had experienced new feelings, new longings. Though he struggled to conceal it from everyone around him, something of his old female self had been resurfacing, a remnant that had been dormant and was now coming back. It was a subject he never dared to discuss with anyone, and to some extent he had been able to set it aside. He had worked extremely hard to get ahead in the BOI, the world’s pre-eminent bastion of male supremacy. On a subconscious level this might have been so that he could destroy his feminine side once and for all.
When Minister Culpepper died, however, things began to change. Kylee didn’t like the way Styx Tertullian treated him, always yelling and casting blame on him unfairly. Kylee was certain that Styx resented him for his superior breeding and Ivy League education, too, since Tertullian’s background had been blue collar. But that was only part of the problem. Maybe Tertullian—a self-proclaimed misogynist—sensed something hormonal about Kylee, that he wasn’t what he appeared to be. That could be dangerous, if he ever ordered a close scrutiny of school and county records and something turned up . . . a loose bit of incriminating information that had been overlooked. Or if he ordered a probative medical examination.
In recent weeks, Kylee had been having second thoughts about what he’d done to his own body, deep regrets and feelings that he had betrayed all of womanhood by abandoning them. This was quite a quandary, especially for a person in his position—now second in command of the Bureau of Ideology. It was during this time that he decided to take a drastically different course, to make up for what he had done, what she had done. Thousands of people would die in the BOI headquarters because of the action she was taking now, but it could not be avoided. Sometimes it was necessary to make a statement, and perhaps the She-God had placed her here for that reason.
A woman could outperform a man after all, and Kaylee was proving it.
She tapped a single key, and three seconds later heard the first blast, followed quickly by another, and then another, like deadly dominoes. There were explosives wired into the headquarters complex, designed to protect BOI secrets when no other options remained. She only counted three blasts, because the next one took her—and the remainder of the BOI headquarters facility—with it. . . .
* * *
When Mrs. Bonham returned from grocery shopping, her house was no longer there. And neither was her house guest. Unknown to the old woman, Kaylee Branson had tracked Styx down and made her last BOI management decision, taking care of an essential detail. In fact, the two explosions that Kaylee originated had occurred simultaneously, timed meticulously to avoid harming an innocent old woman.
Too bad, Mrs. Bonham thought, picking through the rubble and finding a piece of the chain that had been holding Styx Tertullian down. Once, he had been such a sweet boy, and in time she might have salvaged something of the old personality.
Chapter 32
Males are not permitted into the new priesthood. Any man wishing to participate in religious affairs shall do so with his wife or his female companion, under her supervision.
—By Order of Dixie Lou Jackson, Grand Messenger of the Holy She
The following morning . . .
At a brisk pace Dixie Lou crossed the foyer outside her holy office in the Vatican, the heels of her gold boots clicking on the green marble floor. In recent days, her construction crew had begun the extensive job of remodeling the papal offices, utilizing stored building materials and valuable articles from the museums and other repositories of holy Christian treasures. Despite the shut-down of the UWW, she still liked the green-and-orange colors of the old organization, so they were used extensively here. The result pleased her, especially a row of enlarged photographs of herself that lined the foyer, in various heroic poses. In each, she wore what she had on now, one of her elegant white-and-gold robes.
Inside her office, television cameras were being set up for another worldwide broadcast scheduled to begin in a few minutes. She had just supervised the production crew. It was the same format as the afternoon before, when she’d proclaimed herself the Grand Messenger and spoken for half an hour.
Opening the door of Deborah Marvel’s outer office, she strolled in, past the male private secretary who slouched at a desk. He hurried to stand as she swept past. An ugly little man with coke bottle-thick eyeglasses. Why didn’t Deborah get a good-looking, well-built stud knight, as the other newly appointed cardinals had done? Now it occurred to Dixie Lou that Deborah had never utilized stud knights, even though she professed to be heterosexual. The Chairwoman could not recall for certain, but thought Deborah had once mentioned to her that she had been married, and was either separated or divorced. No matter. Dixie Lou didn’t care one way or the other.
Though Dixie Lou had considered watching Deborah Marvel more closely, she had never done much of anything about it. That might have to change. Deborah was still in charge of caring for the Pope, which put her in a position to cause trouble. Perhaps it was time to order an updated report on her. But she found the thought jarring.
What am I thinking? Deborah has always been my most trusted ally. If I can’t trust her, who can I trust?
Dixie Lou realized that she would have to kill all of the remaining councilwomen and start over if she continued along her suspicious line of reasoning. And this was not a good time to do that. She needed their help, relied on their support. She decided that she was only imagining that Deborah needed to be monitored.
I’m being paranoid.
Dixie Lou strode into her chief subordinate’s inner office. Seeing her, Cardinal Marvel, attired in the new green-and-orange vestment of her position, stood and bowed. A steaming cup of coffee sat on her desk. She resumed her seat, but not until she saw the Grand Messenger slipping into one of two brown leather chairs fronting the Cardinal’s cherry wood desk. This desk and all furnishings were identical to the office amenities for the seven other cardinals, set up by Dix
ie Lou so that all appeared to be treated equally.
A close examination of the layout revealed favoritism, however, as Deborah’s office was nearest to the impressive papal office that would soon be occupied by Dixie Lou, and the others were strung out from there—leading to a small council chamber. In accordance with a blueprint drawn up under Dixie Lou’s direction, a second, much larger council chamber was under construction on the main level of the Vatican Palace. It had been interesting to hold council meetings in various chambers around the religious city, but they needed a secure, permanent facility for the world-renowned organization that the Grand Messenger envisioned.
The Holy She.
“We have a few minutes before my speech today,” Dixie Lou announced, “and there are some things you and I need to discuss. I think I know what to do, but I’d like to run my ideas past you. I’ve decided not to answer NATO at all.”
“You know that distresses me, because I’m afraid it will make them unnecessarily agitated, and perhaps cause them to attack. We must respond to them.”
“Nonsense. They don’t dare attack the Vatican, for fear that we’ll blow up the priceless art treasures and kill everyone here, including the Pope and the cute little she-brat, Martha of Galilee. I have some ideas about her, too.”
“With all due respect, can’t we please discuss this more?”
“No time. I’m on the air in fifteen minutes.”
With her hand trembling, Deborah lifted the coffee cup to her lips and drank. Her blue eyes simmered, but she said nothing more about the matter.
Deborah doesn’t dare do anything against me, Dixie Lou thought. She still disagrees, but I have her under control.
“Initially,” the Chairwoman said, “I thought the eleven she-apostles were dead, and Lori, too. So I went on the air with twelve fakes.”
“Then Lori Vale surfaced with eleven real ones,” Deborah said. “And the Mexican Martha showed up.”
“Exactly. And now I’m going to contact Lori.”
“Why?”
“I thought about telling her we’re going to kill the real Martha if she doesn’t bring the other eleven she-apostles to us. Give her a deadline and then crucify the kid out in the square.”
“Crucify a child?”
“Pretty dramatic, huh?”
“But that would make you look bad to the public. You’ll never be an admired world leader if you murder an innocent child!”
Taking a deep breath to calm herself, the Grand Messenger said, “You should listen more carefully, Deborah. I told you I only thought about giving Lori that ultimatum. I have something else in mind entirely. I want you to handwrite a letter to her for my signature, and this is what we’ll say. . . .”
Awkwardly, apparently since she wasn’t accustomed to being treated like a secretary, Deborah scribbled notes, then asked, “You want me to write this up for your signature?”
“No, I want you to throw the notes away, and I’ll dictate it to someone else all over again. Yes, I want you to write it up! It’s a matter of utmost urgency and security! Why do you think I’m having you handle it?”
She nodded, deferentially. “I’ll take care of it right away. Go deliver your speech. I’ll have the letter for you within the hour.”
“What do you think of today’s speech? You read my draft, I presume?”
“Of course. Well, this is your second speech in two days, and—”
“Our second speech.”
“Yes, of course, our second. Yesterday you—I mean we—announced the formation of the Holy She and officially ordered the destruction of all religious texts other than the Holy Women’s Bible.”
“And fires lit up all over the world.” Dixie Lou’s eyes took on a wild glaze. “You saw the burnings on TV, the way the VR-flames seemed to be right inside the room? I leaped up and rubbed my hands in the burning light!”
“I saw the news. But your—our—next proclamation may be a bit severe. I don’t know if we should issue it. Anyone discovered with a heretical publication is subject to summary execution?” She shook her head. “I think it’s too harsh, and unenforceable. We’re confined to the Vatican, after all.”
“Confined? On TV and over the Internet, we can call for Holy She vigilantes to take care of the details.”
“If we issue a proclamation like that, I guarantee you the Internet will be cut off, NATO won’t permit any more reporters in here, and no more couriers will get in or out. The order to burn holy books is bad enough, and there may be repercussions from it.” Deborah started to say something else, but fear crossed her face and she fell silent.
Dixie Lou’s eyes flashed. “They don’t dare cut us off, unless they want to see the Pope’s bloody corpse in the Piazza di San Pietro.”
“Alive, the Pope is a bargaining chip. Dead, he has hardly any value.”
“Maybe you’re right.” The Grand Messenger paused, and her wild eyes seemed to settle down. “All right, I won’t order executions yet. We’ll discuss it in council first.” She glanced at her watch. “I need to go on the air now.”
“Wait. What are you going to say?”
“I’ll wing it. A few platitudes against men, and brief ‘bios’ on the she-apostles. I’ll come up with something. Mmm, maybe a little religious history, putting things in perspective.”
“No proclamations, OK?”
“Agreed. For today.”
On the way back to her office, Dixie Lou considered the future and the past, and how she might go about linking them. Certain passages in the authentic gospels of the she-apostles were intriguing to her, suggesting a dual nature to Jesus, in which he incorporated both male and female aspects. This could be the basis of a future speech.
She set such thoughts aside. The camera crew awaited her.
Sitting down at her desk, Dixie Lou smoothed her exquisite robe, and straightened a golden sword-cross dangling from her neck. Notes were arrayed in front of her, but only for effect. She wouldn’t read them.
“It has come to my attention that the Roman Catholic Church has established a temporary papal office in Avignon, France,” she began, as she spoke into a tiny microphone speck that floated, almost invisibly, in the air beside her. “Students of religious history know that the papacy was located there for much of the fourteenth century, when there were two competing popes—one in Avignon and one in Rome. Perhaps the Church intends to set up a second pontiff now, but that is not necessary, because Pope Rodrigo is in fine fettle. No one has thrown him from the top of St. Peter’s yet.”
Dixie Lou chuckled at her facetious remark. “Now that I have your attention I’ll tell you more about the Holy She. Our message is sweeping the globe. Millions of women are rushing into the fold. . . .”
* * *
Though she tried to conceal it, Deborah had been growing increasingly upset with Dixie Lou Jackson, and deeply disturbed by her actions. After Katherine Pangalos and five other councilwomen were left to die on Monte Konos, Dixie Lou told Deborah it wasn’t intentional, that Katherine must have been meeting with her council friends at the time of the attack, and all of them were just unlucky. It might have happened that way, but circumstantial evidence said otherwise. The subsequent disappearances of Bobbi Torrence and Kaiulani Maheha said otherwise, too, immediately after both of them voiced opposition to Dixie Lou. She had as much as admitted killing them, saying both of them were in “hell” now.
Now Deborah could hardly remember why she and Dixie Lou had been friends and political allies in the first place. The woman’s strange behavior went back to the death of Amy Angkor-Billings, when she began to act as if the whole world revolved around her. Dixie Lou was increasingly losing her grip on reality. More and more she was living in a fantasy realm.
Giancarlo Veron showed up at Deborah’s office while she was writing Dixie Lou’s letter by hand. He said he had been commanded to take it back to the Grand Messenger right away for her signature, and then he was supposed to deliver it to Lori Vale. The Curator of Mediev
al Manuscripts, he said he knew his way through the secret stairway and narrow passageway that Alberto Carducci had used previously—a route that Dixie Lou kept guarded.
But as Deborah chatted with the dark-haired Veron while finishing the letter on Vatican stationery, she could tell that he was displeased with the tasks the Chairwoman had given him to do, not only because he was loyal to the Papacy, but because he had been a friend of the murdered Carducci. In earlier conversations, Deborah had explored Veron’s thoughts, and felt he was a person whom she might trust.
I have to take the risk, she thought. I have no choice.
“Get her signature,” Deborah said, handing the letter to him. “Then meet me at my apartment before leaving Vatican City, and say nothing of this to the Grand Messenger.”
The curator’s black eyebrows arched in surprise. “But she will want the letter delivered right away.”
“There is a matter concerning the security of the Vatican that I must discuss with you first,” she said. “Just between the two of us. Do you understand?”
Apprehensively, he looked at her, his dark brown eyes seeming to search for something. “Just between the two of us,” he agreed.
Then he spun on his heels and left.
The Lost Apostles Page 25
