Fates and Furies

by Michael Orr

  The auditorium Tammeister chose for the Congress of Creeds was immense, with tier upon tier of terraced rows brimming with religious leaders.

  Nazanin stood at the presentation stand three stories up at the front, looking out on all of Earth’s faiths but only half-listening to their arguments. Her mind was wandering...dissecting her talk with Tammeister.

  Was it really only two days ago?

  Everyone present knew that a single meeting of the world’s faiths to hammer out a global belief system by the end of the night was absurd. Thousands of years living side-by-side had done nothing to bring Humanity together on matters of faith, and Tammeister was no fool.

  Nazanin flushed. Only now did the implications crystallize into a diamond of sparkling clarity that exposed her naiveté. This was a moment of very real crisis for the human race, and the only way through it would be to stand as a unified planet. They were faced with an eminently real ‘us or them’ scenario, and the luxury of mutual disagreement was gone.

  The fact was, there could only be one reason to make Dr. Nazanin Sukho the moderator. Her work as a beliefologist was founded on making a clear distinction between religion and spirituality — a distinction much of the world still seemed to miss. Nazanin was dumbfounded that most people used the terms interchangeably, and her three books on the difference had made their mark, but mainly among scholars and specialists, which was exactly what Tammeister needed.

  For the Minister of Global Affairs, calling in Nazanin Sukho was the metaphysical equivalent of calling in the Marines.

  I’m not here to establish a global faith; I’m here to eliminate dogmatic religion altogether!

  Her mouth went dry as she teased out the expectations placed on her...expectations she should’ve recognized days ago.

  Oh Kyle... If her latest ex had been with her, he would’ve seen the political agenda instantly. Instead, she’d been on her own. And rather than recognizing the situation for what it was, she’d been pedantically preparing counter-arguments as if for a college debate.

  It was too late to regroup gracefully. She had to step up now or the opportunity for a real solution would be lost amidst the endless bickering of a thousand-plus cats all refusing to be herded.

  She braced herself as arguments raged, no longer pretending to be a referee. That wasn’t the real reason she was here. She had to become a predator, choosing just the right moment to pounce. And it came in the voice of argumentative atheism.

  “Mister Colley...” she interrupted the atheist du jour, and for several minutes presented a summary of the abundant evidence that Earth’s organized religions were the political tools of scheming rulers from across the ages.

  “Why, given the overwhelming evidence that Humanity has manufactured our own gods, do atheists still insist on battling them? Is Atheism just a Don Quixote club?”

  “What gives you the right to dismiss the collective belief of billions of people?” shouted someone other than Colley. Nazanin almost grinned. This was the very opening she’d been begging for since she was an undergrad, and they’d just handed it to her on a public platter.

  “Belief is not what’s on trial here,” she insisted. “No one’s questioning the right of Humanity to believe, Reverend. The question before us is: do our beliefs rest in false deity or legitimate deity? That, ladies and gentlemen, is the purpose of this congress.

  “Yahweh was a god from the Canaanite pantheon who was exalted by a single tribe seeking to distinguish themselves from the pack. Where’s the difference between the war-like, sacrifice-hungry god of the ancient Hebrews and the bloodthirsty underworld gods of the Aztecs and Mayans? The creator of life holds life sacred and doesn’t demand it as payment. If anything, these lesser deities behave more like demons.

  “On another level,” she continued, “Islam is a return to pre-Christian legalism without mercy, where black and white are the only approved colors. Hinduism is legalistic in how it forces people into castes, and Buddhism claims gods are manifestations of our own egos. None of this qualifies as the true universal creator of life and existence. If any of these ancient deities actually existed, they were subordinate entities vying for a piece of Earth’s limited, localized pie. And it’s a pie we ourselves are outgrowing as we take our bows on the galactic stage.”

  She paused to gather herself and realized the symposium was as still as a diorama. She might’ve been speaking to a dollhouse for all the stunned silence surrounding her. Should she back off? Had she made her point? It felt unfinished. One more thing...

  “For almost twenty-five hundred years, Christianity has mistakenly conflated the fearsome Old Testament god with its own benevolent life-affirming ‘Father’. Many of us here in this auditorium recognize the mistake, but the religion is so far along now that it’d be asking too much to untangle it. Rather than open that can of worms and mop up the mess, we soldier on with the error.”

  She halted her diatribe and tempered her voice to the moment.

  “As I said...belief itself is not what’s on trial here. Isn’t it righteous to let go of the false faces of god in order to find the true one? What devout believer could say ‘no’? It’s time for us as a single, unified and enlightened race to finally graduate from our superstitions and grow up. We have to decide what we mean by ‘god’ and ‘creator’. If we don’t at least agree to do that now, we’ll lose our chance. The Orion Alliance will decide for us, and our cave-dwelling grandchildren will have nothing more to believe in than giants and dragons.”

  In a media room deep within the capitol, Haleigh Tammeister and her cabinet watched the proceedings with varying degrees of concern.

  “What you had in mind, Minister?” one of her advisors fretted.

  “Going rather nicely, I should think.” Tammeister smiled, glancing around at all present. “My compliments, everyone, on recommending the good Doctor. It’s gratifying to know I’ve placed my trust where it belongs.”

  Back in the auditorium, the assembly quivered beneath Nazanin’s gaze like an organism in its death throes. This was her platform...her entire career, summed up succinctly for the whole religious world once and for all. And it was devastating. Terrace upon terrace of wide-eyed faces gaped at her in stunned silence.

  Dear god... she whispered to herself. What she saw in those faces would haunt her for the rest of time. Truth, so long gestating in the minds of iconoclasts across the ages, had finally sprung fully-formed upon the world — and the world wasn’t ready.

  NAZANIN SUKHO, GOD KILLER

  Only in the aftermath did she recognize the magnitude of her crime. There were some things more important than being right. But like a primordial flood, she had washed religion off the face of the Earth, annihilating what had flourished, rightly or wrongly, for thousands upon thousands of years.

  The world had just lost its entire pantheon of pretend creators, and her swift and sure deicide could never be undone. Her hologram-immortalized speech would stand as gatekeeper at the ramparts of human faith for the rest of time. None could assault it without instantly dismissing themselves as nostalgic fools — poor misguided souls reminiscing over an era now forever laid to rest as surely as lost Atlantis.

  10

  * * *

  SYDNEY MEGAPLEX – EARTH – OCT 19, 2355

  The symposium over, Nazanin trudged through the busy government plaza toward a waving DeVonne — and the horror from countless generations of faithful dragged at her heels. She wanted nothing more than to gather up little Zo and flee to the cold shelter of obscurity, Tammeister and professional accolades be damned.

  CRAAACK

  The normal street jangle was pierced by a sound so sharp it slammed Nazanin like a hammer. Then another...

  CRAAACK

  Zo yelps, clutching at DeVonne.

  Nazanin stops cold.

  People are shrieking. Scattering. DeVonne is ducking, using herself as a shield to cover Zo as the toddler cries “Momma!”

  Nazanin hears nothing. Folds to the gr
ound like an accordion. Why isn’t she running? What’s wrong with her?

  And then the pain.

  MOTHER OF GOD, THE PAIN!

  Like nothing she’s known in all her life. There are holes in her flesh!

  She roars out in shock. This isn’t supposed to happen to a body. It’s not made for this kind of treatment. This is all wrong.

  You don’t do this to flesh. Flesh is soft! Delicate! You can’t fire supersonic bullets at it like this. What’re you thinking?!

  Confusion passes, replaced by a strange, detached knowing...

  I’m being killed.

  Zo scrambles for her — struggles against DeVonne’s grasp for the safety of her mom — and a new understanding of crime comes to Nazanin like a missed lesson...one she’s never needed until now.

  This, she realizes, is the unimaginable violence that forces society to euthanize its murderers. This is why, right here. It’s so unbelievably wrong! I’m not supposed t’be dead yet. There’s supposed t’be more. All the struggle, all the surviving, all the study and accomplishment and progress — it leads to more. There’s s’posed to be a payoff.

  She gapes into the great beyond hovering before her eyes like manifest desolation. Maybe the gods are repaying her in kind. Is this what she deserves? Zo isn’t raised yet...a young life that needs her. A young life she chose to bring into the world even though she wasn’t ready.

  “MAH-AH-AH MAH-AH!” Zo bleats like a wounded lamb, scrambling harder as DeVonne’s eyes reach out to Nazanin.

  “Run...” is all Nazanin has left in her blood-filled lungs.

  The plaza around her is a frenzy of stunned voices in mid-screech... The wail of approaching sirens... Nothing her mind can focus on. Vision fades, returning to the time she took Zo to a rogue seer; a life-pather not sanctioned by Prometheus:

  “I can’t tell you what your daughter’s life path is. It’s closed to me. But I can tell you things you need to know. When a child can’t be life-pathed, Prometheus takes notice. It’s so rare that their assumption is, the child must be a portent of some kind. An omen.

  I can promise you Zo will be watched. Kept track of. You won’t notice. You won’t even be able to tell. But every record, every grade, every event in Zo’s life will find its way into a file at the Institute, and they’ll watch for any signs of what she’s here to do.

  “There are superstitions even within the Institute. One is that a soul that can’t be read comes to us from a high place. It’s here t’do work.”

  “What kind of work?” Nazanin is desperate to avoid mistakes.

  “Service. Healing. Change. Vision. These are the prophets, the visionaries, the creators of shift. They do the work the rest of us can’t, and we all benefit from them. They’re the ones who bring evolution. That’s why they’re watched so closely.”

  “So, my daughter’s marked.”

  “Yes. But it doesn’t hafta be a problem. More important is what she’s here to do. Don’t let paranoia ruin your life. They’ll only watch. They want to understand.”

  “Are there others like her?”

  “A few. There’s always a few in every generation. Not all of them actually end up doing anything, though. These souls are fragile. Many times, they break. Life can be too much for them and they get derailed. Such souls live their lives never feeling at home in the world. Never sure why they’re here. Never getting to the point of their lifetime. That’s what you have to guard against. The Institute’s not to worry. Care for your daughter. Love her and teach her how to handle this world. Do whatever you can to bring her up intact. That’s what matters.”

  “Isn’t that what any parent does? Don’t I need more?”

  The seer leans back thoughtfully, tapping an ancient pen against a finger. “Treat Zo like glass without letting her know it. She needs ta think she’s normal. It’s a difficult tightrope to walk, but you asked for special instructions. That’s what I can give you.”

  “You say she’s fragile. How? In what way?”

  “In her core. Watch over her inner world. Care for her emotions. Teach her how to reconcile confusions and conflicts — the internal ones that scar without showing. Give her a roadmap through the inner things of life so she doesn’t have to struggle through them blindly. Don’t leave her alone in there.”

  Life seeps heavily out of Nazanin’s back with the flow of blood, as if she’s dropping through the pavement. The crycrete is no longer the firm, solid surface she’s used to standing on. Little more, now, than a veil to pass through.

  Her body is mangled. A squishy, wet, leaking grotesque fit only to be vacated. But the unbearable pain has dulled. The last thoughts she can muster are of Zo.

  The seer’s words flood in again: Don’t leave her alone in there.

  “I’m so sorry, baby...” Nazanin mouths up to the looming sky, too weak to whisper...too weak to do anything but leave.

  11

  * * *

  SINGAPORE MEGAPLEX – EARTH – NOV 30, 2355

  “They’re letting you keep ’er?!”

  DeVonne sat tall with little Zo on her lap. “They want ’er raised safe.” She beamed. “I get t’be a mom!”

  “That’s...!” Her friends were speechless.

  There was nothing rare about adoption, except that in this case the baby’s father was very much alive and adored his little girl. Giving her up was the hardest thing in the world, but Zo would be too easy to trace back to him. She had to stay hidden, and while DeVonne had been quick to promise him visitation rights, they’d have to be well-planned and secret.

  She was still reveling in the good fortune with her inner circle when the air took a sudden turn. The same thought played across her friends’ faces. Something was wrong.

  Reality exploded with the suddenness of an apocalypse. Beyond deafening...like the primordial explosion that called Creation into being. The Earth shook and blasts of hot, prickly air whipped past, showering everyone in dust and needling them with the shards of shattered things.

  Time stopped and everything went still — as silent as eternity.

  DeVonne stirred from the blackness of oblivion, picking herself out of the rubble with instinctive movements, eyes blinded as she felt for Zo.

  Darkness peeled away in layers as blurry light gradually refocused. She cradled the unconscious toddler and looked around in a daze, sick from the swimminess in her head. Her friend Yuna’s bloody mouth was open wide, lungs emptying in a shriek nobody could hear.

  DeVonne stared stupid at Shayne and Tawni’s lifeless bodies. Horrible gore spoke of something massive bashing in their heads before moving on in the shockwave.

  Drone ‘eyes’ were rushing in from all directions amidst the smoke and fallout as she sat dumb. They passed unnoticed by her blank stare, a recent movie replaying behind her eyes:

  Sirens and drones. Shrieks and panic. Little Zo struggles in her arms as DeVonne stares into dying eyes. She doesn’t dare move with shots ringing out around her, but the mouth belonging to those eyes tells her to run. DeVonne hears nothing. Only the lips move, but she understands.

  Save the baby! Save all that remains of Nazanin Sukho!

  She tries to summon the courage. Fears the sudden slam of a bullet into some part of her. There isn’t time.

  She clambers one-handed to her feet and sprints. No idea where to go. Her feet take the lead, tracing a zigzag path through the scattering crowd as stray bullets miss their next mark and ricochet off crycrete. An archway ahead leads out of the plaza.

  Too obvious, she decides. The bullets will seek her there.

  She dodges toward a nearby trash recycler. Leaps behind it, landing hard on her side to shield the wailing child in her arms...

  A hand interrupted her movie. DeVonne looked up into the facemask of a rescue worker before twisting over to wretch. So many were dead. So many.

  SOCAL MEGAPLEX – EARTH – DEC 12, 2355

  DeVonne still felt twinges in her hip and ears as she coaxed her little girl forward, but ph
ysical pains meant nothing compared to what was happening in her heart and soul.

  The Conservatory’s steps were Mount Olympus to a toddler barely two years old, and it took a fair amount of encouragement to keep the girl at it. Slow progress gave DeVonne leisure to scan the grounds.

  At the head of the steps rose a sparkling crystal rotunda with the traditional dome roof that always signaled the arts. And around the impressive building sprawled a campus of smaller domed structures all nestled in a continuous garden. It would be lovely in spring when everything was in bloom, but even now in SoCal’s dry winter, well-tended rows of spruce and other evergreens provided relief from the dusty straw grass. What a beautiful place for Zo to grow up.

  Trisha! she scolded herself. A slip-up like that in public could cost lives.

  She suddenly noticed a figure at the top of the steps, and her paranoid heart fluttered before she recognized the conservatory’s regent. The woman on the steps could wait just a little longer. It wasn’t much to ask.

  Reaching the top landing, DeVonne met Madam Durra’s gaze and tacitly gave up the girl who’d been her daughter for such a short time. If there’d been any other way...

  “Hello,” the woman’s greeting dripped enthusiasm and DeVonne instantly felt better. The voice was gentle and caring. Personal. Not the brittle taskmaster one might expect of a world-class grande dame. “What’s your name?”

  DeVonne melted when the little girl hugged her leg and hid behind it. “Twifsha.”

  The woman grinned wide with delight. “Hi, Trisha. d’You know who I am?”

  “Wuh-nay.” The girl still clutched DeVonne’s leg.