The Lady's Champion

by M F Sullivan

On noticing the depth of her silence, the Lamb said something that she assumed was some dry form of comfort. Dominia couldn’t hear his words above the pounding of hammers.

  X

  The Fourth Empire

  Never in her wanderings had the General felt so tired. Though she’d slept when dropped off at Kronborg, the series of brutal revelations—punctuated by that one joyful moment of promise—left her in sore need of unconsciousness to process all she’d learned. Sleep knew, and it eluded her with a sadism resembling that of her so-called Family. Rather than rest while the Hierophant and Lavinia were across town in Elsinore’s sprawling Elizabethan theater, she paced her room.

  This was beyond the burden of Odysseus’s homecoming to suitors plaguing his wife. This time, Odysseus returned to discover the suitors had always been there, skittering in the dark corners of his home as cockroaches might inhabit the dwellings of lesser men. The cockroaches here were deceptive, articulate, and alarmingly omniscient. They were also consummate schemers. The air buzzed with the vibrations of their treachery: an only semi-imagined quality palpable to her after her time in the Ergosphere and its nighttime Void.

  The Void. She could slip into that Void with such ease. She needed an extra hour or so of rest to think and feel sentient, but she didn’t need it to slip into that other place. She didn’t even need to smoke the magician’s bent cigarette to skip into the Kingdom, if she could tolerate wandering through the dark. A formless Void was almost preferable to staying, especially now that the information around her had resolved for her eye into those digital threads. Failing those, she could just light a fire and be patient. Then, in daylight, navigate her way—

  Where?

  Nowhere.

  There was nowhere to go. Not really. In theory, she could wink back to Jerusalem and join the battle there. Then? She’d be once more up to her elbows in killing—human and martyr alike. More than ever, violence did not seem the worthy way. If evil could have been said to exist, martyrs qualified, but they were only evil because the Hierophant had carefully groomed them to worship the worst in man. It was like breeding dogs backward into wolves, which he had also more or less done, although in the case of canines, he kept the killer hounds in separate kennels, far away from the gentle family dogs who only wanted to love and be loved. Nothing of the bloody business of their cousins.

  Remarkable how similar animals always were in the end, though. When they were afraid, or ashamed. Even animals could be penitent. After a beloved cat had died and Cassandra had mourned it (Dominia secretly mourned it, busy being strong for her wife), the General had talked her into a dog. They had to compromise somewhat, as Cassandra was partial to small dogs, whereas Dominia felt if one was inclined to get a small dog, they’d might as well get another cat. In the end, they’d settled on a miniature shepherd breed originating from the climate-ravaged prison colony of Australia. The dog in question was not so small as to annoy the General, nor so large as to annoy Cassandra. He instead managed to routinely annoy them both by getting into trash, digging up the garden, and engaging in other excusable dog faux pas. Each time he was caught, he exhibited humiliated facial expressions and sulky mannerisms such as leaning his face sadly against the nearest cabinet: inevitably, the women would relent into petting and consoling the petulant pooch until his mood improved.

  Even the decidedly not sapient dog had felt shame. The Hierophant somehow lacked that quality. He may not have been an alien in body, but in heart and soul and mind, he was one just as much as any little green man. Perhaps living so long had wrung the decency out of him—but, considering Cicero, it was more likely he’d never possessed a sense of it to begin with. Rather than developing decency, he’d grown a sense of humor. The younger version of the man was more inclined to bouts of rage and intense physical sadism; the older version had gotten all his rage out and just lived for seeing the moment his victim understood what was about to happen. In that light, she was surprised the Hierophant had not been there to see her reaction to news of the impending inverted crucifixion: then again, she supposed he had seen it before.

  Yet she struggled to believe for an instant that the Hierophant remembered all he did from the top of his head, however he touted the supposedly lost Roman rhetorical art of memory. It was undeniable that the protein enhanced his faculties in that regard—beyond the point of even the average martyr, it was evident—but there was more to all this than had already been revealed.

  It would help if she knew what was going on the night of the so-called party. It would help more if she knew what was happening in Jerusalem. He had given her no television, but if his surge was at all successful in enclosing the Lady’s library, supply lines were cut and Dominia’s soldiers were trapped. Allegedly. The Hunter tunnel system extended an astonishing length and often incorporated existing tunnels beneath buildings and sewer systems. Even if her Father’s militaries closed off the city at the same time as the teleporter in Tunis and the landing pad in Tangiers, many fighters and civilians alike had reasonable odds of evading their death. Many neighborhoods had been evacuated of citizens by her prior efforts, and now by the UF and European armies, but more civilians remained.

  And as for Dominia’s own inner circle—had the Lady fled, or did She remain? And what of Farhad and Gethsemane? She hadn’t gotten back on track to press the magician, she realized now.

  It didn’t matter, truth be told. Their fate was in Valentinian’s hands, and of course their own. For her own part, Dominia’s fate began to settle upon her with a distinct sense of nihilism. That unreliable saint had gotten shifty when she’d pressured him about her leg. Seemed like she would have to come to terms with that—and since he hadn’t even mentioned the crucifixion to her, well, she was going to have to accept that, too.

  All the more reason to do anything other than mope in her room. She was now working on a limited timeline to determine the nature of the New Year’s events, outside of removing her leg. Figuring out who would be at each event and what each event was would be key to developing some—any—contingency plan.

  Good thing the Holy Father was out practicing his lines. No time like the present to go rifling through his stuff, especially since there was no telling when she’d get strung up on that cross. The trick would be getting to his office without attracting attention.

  The castle was thick with spies, whether mollycoddled martyr children or brainwashed human slaves who believed their masters deserved all they took. That was to say nothing of the martyr courtiers themselves, the many painters and poets and sculptors and lords and ladies and distant Holy Family relatives and hired friends and their friends and often the lovers of all of the above, each circulating through the many halls to see and be seen gossiping, admiring the great many pieces of plundered art displayed upon the walls, listening to the finest music, or occasionally engaging in a jolly bit of torture—though never without reason! Martyrs were not cruel, as the Hierophant assured them. Torture was justified with certain breeds of evil criminals, and, of course, traitors. Given the opportunity, martyrs the world over would tell the General she was lucky the Hierophant planned to leave her with her life.

  In a way, they were right. The Lady was also right. So was Dominia’s own conscience. Returning home to face this horrific punishment—or, at least, to be faced with the prospect of it—was necessary. There were no better options. After two hundred years of genocide, she had imperiled an entire world by giving her Father access to a fertile martyr. Sold her daughter to the Devil. And for that, he’d made her Governess of the United Front. At the time, she had been too depressed and too corrupt to care. There was no fixing the past from the present. But there was changing the present so the future could be better. There was repentance—not for the world’s sake, or Cassandra’s sake, or even her own. No: for Lavinia’s.

  So, for Lavinia’s sake, she emerged from her room with that long-missed gun still down her back. The Hierophant and his favorite daughter and whatever “lucky” actors selected for t
he occasion would be tied up in rehearsal for hours. As to Cicero and the Lamb, she was not so sure. They had parted ways twenty minutes before, after showing her the crucifix and walking her to her door.

  She needed to be careful. Kronborg was not the Holy Father’s largest demesne, but it was grand nonetheless, and overfull of threats to her security. She needed creep from the hall containing her bedroom and through the church wing without looking like she crept. Then she’d have to pass a series of tearooms—long since converted to more bedrooms and offices, but a great deal more salons, studios, and reading rooms. Those would be better attended, but, like the diners in the train car that first time speaking to Miki, perhaps they would be too caught up in their amusements to pay her attention. Perhaps. Although she would like very much to handle all of this by not handling any of it—that was, by slipping into the Void—the first and foremost thing she needed do was dispose of her weapon.

  The sad fact was, the good old gun gifted to her after her campaign in the Pacific (by the Holy Father, of course) now caused her more trouble than benefit. That single bullet meant one of two things: suicide or a lucky shot. And if she kept it on her person, well—perhaps it was her metaphysically one-eyed nature, but the General (not with two earthly eyes and her spiritual one all squinting in unison) could see no realistic opportunity for its use against anyone but herself before the undisclosed time of her ordeal. Therefore, if the gun was to be of use against anyone external, it had to be somebody’s else’s problem.

  Though she had not been made privy to “the plan,” Dominia had gotten to know the Lady, Lazarus, and Valentinian pretty well. René Ichigawa’s useless ass had to have been positioned at Kronborg for a reason. If Tenchi had been willing to stake his life on the bet that Dominia would make the correct decision, it would have been easy for him to get himself caught: but René had been enlisted into the scheme despite his cowardice and skepticism, and had, when one thought it all through, no reason to have been involved in the plan in the first place. That was worth consideration. She did not by any means trust him, but in this situation, she had no choice. It had crossed her mind to give the weapon to Lavinia, but the girl would find the burden unbearable with her heart not fully won—and Dominia was not certain the girl’s heart could ever be fully won. Even if they won it enough to win the night (and somehow purify her corrupted blood, as Valentinian had suggested a miracle might), would her leadership be enough to ensure the safety of the future? Was there a way to show her truth enough to prevent backpedaling into a grim extension of this violent path?

  That feeling of Cassandra in her arms. You can do it.

  Yes. She could. Dominia’s truth could liberate Lavinia—but it would need to be delivered soon. The more truth delivered at once, the better: and the General was keen to deliver it before the Hierophant had her swinging by her ankle. A thought inspired by the distant sounds of carpenters sealing her fate, nail by nail.

  Concern for the location of Cicero’s position started to nag at the General when she passed beyond the ominous clatter of the church wing. That concern magnified until she swept through the tiltyard rather than risking the tearooms. Long since converted to an overflowing greenhouse that burst with exotic herbs, South American flowers and vines even in the midst of winter, the altered jousting arena was a good place for somebody who wanted privacy: or somebodies. As she ducked through rows of sumptuous plant life, she spotted the Family’s beloathed priest submitting, among a peacock’s tail of orchids, to the embrace of his partner. She thanked her stars the Lamb was sympathetic to her interests and passed down a different row, of exotic jungle mimosa trees wrapped with garlands of flowers whose aromas rendered the General unsmelled as the kiss rendered her unseen and Cicero’s flurried thoughts (had he emotion enough left to relent to love) rendered her unheard. Praise the Lamb, praise the Lamb: even after her disgrace and reluctant return, the Rabbi remained sympathetic to his daughter.

  In fact, as she emerged from the tiltyard and resumed her perfectly casual way to the Hierophant’s office, she could not help but consider the Lamb must have been very sympathetic to her ends. There was no doubt that he knew the magician had given her the gun. Yet he had said nothing of the matter to Cicero—had he, her weapon would already be gone and she would be confined to her quarters. She had the distinct feeling that, however the bullet was spent, the Lamb approved.

  Was this a good sign, or a bad one?

  At last she reached the former storerooms converted to a series of guest bedrooms upon the Hierophant’s acquisition of the property and his considerable alterations to its size. It was now a matter of locating that particular cell in which Ichigawa stayed—and a cell it would be. While the suites were reasonably furnished and quite elegant in and of themselves, this set of bedrooms and laughably tiny bathrooms were as sizable as the allotment of a favored prisoner: a purpose for which they were frequently engaged. Locating her implied prisoner of choice was not difficult, because even without a martyr’s senses, she could have picked his whimpering through any door.

  “René.” She knocked, courteously warning him as she began to turn the knob. “It’s me. I’m coming in, okay?”

  “What,” he called as she carried through the motion, “not you!” The professor sat up from bed and cracked his skull on the bookshelf above with such ferocity that even Dominia saw stars.

  “Lamb, René, are you all right?”

  “No! Who puts a bookshelf so low over a bed?”

  “A sadist,” observed Dominia, studying the collection of books with which the Hierophant had decorated René’s shelf. Such gems as The History of Torture, and a play by the ancient European prisoner-poet Genet. Deathwatch. Through these, she thumbed in cursory search of a bug. “Nice of him to provide you with reading material.”

  “He’s very subtle.” Rubbing the top of his head with a grimace, the man sat up in bed and searched for trousers to shield his skinny legs. “Do you just come barging in on everyone like that? What if I had been naked?”

  “Like I care. Welcome to war, Private.” As Dominia recognized her yet-damp jacket had been hung over the head of the casket-size shower, she slipped into the bathroom to reclaim it, then thought better. Instead, she called him inside with faux irritation while looking hither and thither for holo-cameras. Scanners built into the walls, most likely. Plus the showerhead? No: too indiscrete. “What’s this hole, René,” she said in mock irritation, fingering the yet-damp fabric of the drying jacket. “It didn’t have this when I gave it to you.”

  “What do you mean, hole?” Irritated, the now fully dressed professor marched into the tight space with her, and she yanked the coat down from where it stood drying to brusquely cram it in his hands.

  “See?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, never mind. It’s not mine, anyway.” Still feigning annoyance, she moved as though to put it on and, in a sleight of hand that would have pleased the magician but remained hidden from the perception of even a full-room hologram, slipped the gun from her waistband to the equally black fabric of the jacket while it still hung near the level of her hips. A look of disgust crossed her face. “Ugh, still wet. Keep it.” She thrust the jacket and gun back into his hands.

  “Of course it’s still wet! Did you—” His true annoyance melted into an expression of shock once he shifted his grip on the jacket and felt its contents. “Is—”

  Trained by three centuries of battle, her reflexes kept the next three equally loud words from escaping by virtue of a hand that slapped down across his mouth. “Don’t argue. Okay?”

  Slightly, he nodded, and as she drew back her hand, she asked, “Did the Hierophant tell you what you’ll be doing before the party?”

  “I don’t know…” With an uneasy glance at the damp and dangerous parcel he cradled like a North American football, René stepped back out of the bathroom. “He asked if I’m a religious man.”

  So the professor’s “pre-party” obligation was to attend Dom
inia’s ceremony of repentance. “Aren’t you excited! You get to watch me lose my leg. Does that even us out for earlier?”

  “What—no! I already told you how freaked out I am about that! And not just for your health, but—I want to be a martyr so I can live forever, not so I can watch amputations. Maybe that’s what some people are into.”

  “Like the Hierophant, and Cicero, and a whole lot of other religious nuts who are going to be very torn between a place as an observer of the ceremony or a seat in the Hierophant’s play. Speaking of”—the General glanced at the digital clock glowing crimson in the upper-left-hand corner of the room’s one smartwall, displayed with a summation of the weather and local traffic conditions—“I have to run. But I need you—”

  Faltering, reluctant to speak out loud, she lifted a finger to silence him. From the drawer of the tiny scribe’s desk crammed into the corner, she withdrew a pad of paper and a courtesy pen. Anxiously contorting her arm and back to shield the pad from anything suspect in the room (cupholders, lampshades, certainly the aforementioned smartwall along with any stupid ones), the General scribbled a note while René leaned over her shoulder to watch.

  This thing has one bullet. If you are for sure going to the ceremony, try to sit where you’ll get a clear shot.

  “Of whom?” he asked. She flashed him a grim little smile as she wrote: If you can’t get Cicero, then I guess me.

  “You want me to—” Lips sealing in agitation, René snatched the pen from her to scribble in elegant-yet-illegible scholar’s cursive: You want me to shoot Cicero?

  I like that you’re more concerned about him.

  With an annoyed look for Dominia’s lame attempts at humor, René jotted: I’m concerned about me. Several underlines, and a very emphatic wave of his hand on slamming down the pen.

  Starting to feel annoyed, herself, Dominia tore the top three pages from the pad, folded them, and tore them apart while she flat out asked, “Do you think he’s going to let you live in his world if he gets his way in any of this?”