The General's Bride

by M F Sullivan

  The mystic, rubbing the temple of his forehead, managed, “Yeah, they come here all right. Come here and annoy me.”

  “Our founder was a man first tricked by the Lazerene faith, who then saw the light. He recognized the cult was but a means of pacifying humans into perpetuating the endless struggle against martyrs, rather than destroying them. One of these days”—the cheerful dentist looked to Lazarus, dark cheeks creased by the breadth of his grin—“I am going to catch you. Then all my men, and all worthy humans of the world, will come and go from this place as they please. It will be nothing to destroy the martyrs.”

  “You’re the leader of all the Hunters.” Dominia corrected her misperception in astonishment as Valentinian, crossing his arms, shifted his weight so both men—rather unnecessarily—stood between her and the dentist. Then again, she supposed it was for the human’s good, no matter how impermanent death was in this place.

  “You’re wasting your time, Tobias. She’s not going to Jerusalem with you. Run home to the rest of the Hunters.”

  “Oh, I know Miss Mephitoli will not be going to Jerusalem with me today. But I have come to extend the option, because she may change her mind in the future. It would be immoral if I did not give her a way out of what she must otherwise face!”

  That a Hunter—their leader!—should lecture on morality was laughable, but what got her attention was something else. Talk of the future in any context alarmed her these nights. “Don’t tell me you’ve also been through all this before?” she asked. That provoked a hardy laugh.

  “No, no, my friend, oh, my, no. Why, compared to your single lifetime, I am practically a boy! A mere fifty-three years old. But even at my young age, I have learned much of the workings of the world, of martyrs, and of you. I know the path down which you trek”—said with the slightest ironic grin for the bricks beneath their feet—“is a shortsighted and petty one. If you think your people will ever submit to starvation floating around the void of space, you are a fool. If your Father is the only martyr to die, it will begin an unceasing war. Your friends would destroy the whole world to cure the blight of martyrdom. One does not kill the body to extract an abscessed tooth.”

  “The only shortsighted one is you,” Valentinian insisted, but the human didn’t stop for breath.

  “This place exists for a reason, and it is not to shelter martyrs as your Father would see fit to use it; nor is it a means to manipulate the world, as would this heretical magician. This place exists to protect humanity from martyrs! Lazarus holds the key to salvation, but hoards it!”

  Disgust rose in the General’s heart. Though she’d had her share of hypocritical moments, she would never be as blatantly false in self-representation as Tobias. “For someone who professes to hold such love for humanity, you never mind when your terrorists kill humans by the hundreds. What about that marathon bombing? My family didn’t get a scratch; a pile of human corpses filled that crater. For that matter, how often do your people pray to the Lamb for help conquering cities or destroying innocent lives in the name of your so-called mission? You have no problem appealing to the saints of the Holy Martyr Church when it serves.”

  There was no use in logic. Everybody in this place had an answer for everything, and the dentist was no exception. “Those individual lives must be forfeit for the sake of the whole. It is indeed a tragedy, but when Iblis stoops to genocide, what can be done? We play by his rules.”

  “‘Iblis’—that’s the Islamic term. I thought you were Christian.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. But our organization is full of people who understand that the cause of eliminating martyrs is the true holy war, and when a Christian works with a Muslim, he soon realizes that ‘Allah’ and ‘Iblis’ are simply another language’s names for ‘God’ and ‘the Devil.’” Dominia fought against the chill that crawled through her to remember her Father’s words. “We are Muslims, Christians, Jews, and men of all Eastern faiths: even Buddhists join our cause, so it must be righteous, for they are peaceful and hold the destruction of all life as sin! But the faith of the leader at the top does not matter to those who join our cause. It matters only that he possess the vial of Lazarus’s blood, and prove capable of seeing this place and living on. This is all very secret, you see. I only became involved with the Hunters while attending a school for those humans lucky enough to buy their way into safety by serving martyrs, working in vocations your idle people refuse to perform. A slave, yes? Only given the opportunity because Iblis refuses to enlist the help of artificial intelligence like the rest of the sentient world. Not that our artificial intelligence is anywhere near the quality it should be, given the amount of time and resources we’ve spent at war with your Father for the last two thousand years!

  “You can imagine, Miss Mephitoli: during my so-called European internship, I saw much suffering. What terrible pains your Father inflicts upon the Earth, upon humankind! I could not stand for it. I escaped to join the Hunters. When it comes to the issue of martyrs, you see, there is no such thing as ‘Muslim’ or ‘Christian’ or ‘Jew.’ Not even ‘Buddhist’ or ‘Hindu’!”

  Dominia’s irritation was on the verge of boiling over. “Of course not. Because they’re just bodies to you. Tools to be used as you see fit.”

  “You act as though I am as bad as your Father. I assure you, Miss Mephitoli: I am the one who will be legislating in the wake of war. Not him. If even a Buddhist will join our cause, your life must be worth less than a tick’s; martyrs are worse than subhuman. They are entropic. A species of primitive apes without the decency to develop the concept of cultural taboo.”

  “You and the rest of the Hunters”—Valentinian draped an arm around Dominia’s tensed shoulders to steer her toward Cairo, away from the man she trembled to punch—“think that because you’re a bunch of modern primitives, so you see primitivism everywhere. Hooting in your stolen tanques and tossing bombs like cartoon villains. Wastes of space!”

  “I cannot bring myself to lie to you,” Tobias called after them, still near the signpost. “I cannot promise you the life of your dead wife, as so many others have: that is something only the Lord can give, and He can only give it on the Day of Judgment. Nor can I promise you any particular power, for that, again, is a matter of God. But I can promise you two things. I can promise you exception from the doings that need done against your people, that you might keep your martyr life under fulfillment of certain conditions; and I can promise you, Dominia, that you will be doing what is right. You will be doing what is good by all humankind and by God if you come with me now, to Jerusalem. Your soul might still be saved.”

  “And if I continue with them?” She jerked free of Valentinian. “What’ll you do?”

  Akachi’s eyebrows lifted and his expression remained humorous; but a new, rotten tone curdled his words. “Then you are as much an enemy of mankind as your Father, and I will see you killed.”

  Still as an ice sculpture, the infamous General assessed the dentist and said in her own warning tone, “You know what’s disappointing about you? Everybody I meet lately has some ulterior motive. I guess I was stupid for hoping you were an altruistic person.”

  “Ah, Miss Mephitoli. You speak of disappointment, but I assure you: the feeling is mutual.” Tightly, the dentist smiled, then turned away while pulling up his hood. “I shall see you in Cairo, my dear.”

  “I hate that guy.” Valentinian made an obscene gesture with his forearm while Lazarus resumed tossing pebbles.

  “What do you expect? Humans who get a taste of the black sun are insufferable know-it-alls. Anybody who spends all their time in this place has to be a pain in the ass.”

  “Yeah,” said Valentinian absently. Dominia’s laughter got him listening too late, and he caught on with a sullen, “Hey,” while the mystic offered a sly grin.

  “Even I have a sense of humor,” said Lazarus. The magician rolled his eyes.

  “Yeah? Where’d you leave it?”

  In that moment of genuine mirth, the sti
rrings of the Hierophant between her and her friends lay so far away. It occurred to her she had hardly batted an eye when it was Tobias’s chance to manipulate her. Chalk that up to the men’s reaction to her brush with the doppelgänger. They treated her as if nothing at all had happened. She had to believe they were worth trusting—had to believe that the spirit of that good dog was her friend, and not one of the imaginary kind. Thus, alone with Valentinian while Lazarus went to early sleep that night, Dominia watched the magician tend the fire and, after a time, said, “I’m sorry.”

  “I should be sorry! I lost my temper. I try to be patient with you, but you’ve got a pretty short fuse yourself, buddy. Easy for one spark to light another.” After watching her from over his shoulder, the magician returned attention to the crackling blaze. “Something you want to talk about?”

  “It’ll all be okay, right? I mean…won’t it?” She felt like a child again, a sad girl trying to find some sign from the universe that the world was not cruel as she’d come to fear. Upon the blanket the magician had unfurled for her, Dominia pushed long strands of dream-hair back into the ponytail corralling them. “I haven’t done something unfixable, have I?”

  “With the doppelgänger? No, not yet. If you keep going back to it, maybe. But if you can help yourself, we’ll be okay.”

  “What about Tobias?” For some reason, she had not anticipated meeting a Hunter here; and this specific Hunter stirred other thoughts. “Did Miki know about him?”

  “No, but the Red Market does. They use their girls like spies and distribute them accordingly, whether the RM agents in question are aware or not. You thought your eye was streaming a lot of information? Hah! Every phone that’s had Miki Soto’s ID number in it has been a recording device since 4031.”

  “If you’re a dog in the flesh, how do you know so much about Miki? I mean, I know you’ve lived many times, but—”

  “That, and eternity is a long time—so long it’s ‘always.’ From this space I’ve gotten much information. Even people—read the fields and atmosphere correctly, and you can find anybody. There really are a lot of people here, although”—he chuckled into the darkness—“it doesn’t seem that way. But, it’s better to walk seven days here with no people and no sun exposure than forty days on Earth with the profound threat of Hunters.”

  “What about here? Aren’t they a threat here?”

  “Everything is and isn’t a threat here. I told you before: get killed, wake up. It’s disorienting, but it’s not so bad except for the lost time and the difficulty of precisely finding your way back.”

  Satisfied enough, Dominia closed her eye against the eerie dark. “What do we do if he follows us?”

  “We’ll deal with him. Look, General: I know you’re used to planning. You want to have control of the situation. Don’t we all! But now’s not the time. Now, just go to sleep. You want to know if everything will be okay? Well, I promise. You have a hard time putting faith into other people’s words, but believe me: I wouldn’t have invested so much time and effort helping you if you weren’t the key to a grand and terrible prison. If I didn’t like you as a person and think you worth helping. There are a lot of ‘yous’ who haven’t made it this far…who don’t think to ask the questions you’re asking, or put them together in the way you’re putting them together. Because of that, you’re the only ‘you’ that will make the right series of decisions.”

  That was all well and fine, and comforting—or would have been. But, after the events of the night prior, her nerves were on edge in the dark. Valentinian applied the same dust he had each night, and like each night, she tumbled off to deep, velvet sleep: but she continued tumbling again and again, for many times she awoke and thrashed upon the blanket only to fall back unconscious. It was as though she fought off some virus, though the only virus that plagued her was one of her thoughts. Not even the magician’s sand might keep her from fear of herself, fear of her own lust, fear of Cassandra’s disappointment. From thoughts of Cassandra, dead and unable to feel anything, let alone disappointment.

  Good point: when (if?) she eventually returned, surely Dominia’s wife would not be so broken by the General’s loneliness- and pain-motivated infidelity. Not as much as her ego imagined. It was not Cassandra’s disappointment she needed fear, but her own. She thought of the book in the Hierophant’s study while awaiting his torches; of Odysseus, returning to Penelope after years in the arms of Circe and Calypso. Surely the wife of that man skilled in all ways of contending did not begrudge him those caresses transpiring at the whims of goddesses! But surely also, as Dominia once had heard Cicero joke to the Lamb, there were two versions of the Odyssey: the version Odysseus told Penelope, and the version he told fellows in the bars. Would there were but one truth! Would she were pure enough, good enough, to carry only one back to her vivified bride.

  Eventually, muscles aching with tension she was unused to feeling in this space—and perhaps only felt because her sleepless mind expected as much of its restless body—Dominia sat up to assess the sleeping men. Valentinian snored into his arm and Lazarus lay like a corpse, mouth hanging open and no observable breath disrupting his chest. Even so, and even though she had slept as “long” as nights before, the path of the Hierophant had not appeared.

  This should have proven relief. As if she cared to see him, or that thing! She tried to assure herself that her passing scorn was misplaced. Her Father mentioned it would take time for the doppelgänger to repair. Perhaps he and it had taken the night off? Too good to be true.

  Something was wrong. No path would be forthcoming, she felt. Perhaps if the path did not come, day would never break. She considered waking Valentinian but knew without having to try he would not awaken. Like the day, he would not rise until she had gone to the Hierophant, or accomplished some other strange task. As long as she lay doing nothing, the light would not come.

  Anxiety filled her with the truth. The only way to reach his study tonight was to find it, herself. After some delay in the hope Valentinian would spontaneously awaken, she placed a foot into the black Void beyond the firelight.

  For days, her mind had wondered at the substance of that darkness. Was it a true void, like outer space? Some unknown, tarry matter? Or, would she would step into the darkness and stop existing? She expected all those things to varying degrees, but as it happened, none occurred. She remained herself: she was simply now herself standing outside the circle of light, in a type of dark that cooled the muscles of her body, the overdriven thoughts of her brain. More alone at the edge of the light than she’d been with the sleeping men, she closed her eye to think of the Hierophant’s study. Where might it be located? She could not see the ropes of her compass, that marvelous diffusion of not just light but perhaps all the electromagnetic spectrum, including regions then unknown, unmeasured, by man. But there had to be some way. The men had indicated several times that one could find one’s way by tracing some sort of energy pattern, but the General saw nothing in the dark. What about the concept of attraction, though? Her electromagnetic field was not absent, just invisible. A compass you couldn’t read was no good as a compass, but what about the magnetic component of the device? Was she not a walking magnet? The mortal coil through which a current of consciousness ran?

  If she had attracted the thoughtform, could she attract the study?

  She tried envisioning it, its checkerboard floor and broad, filled shelves springing out of space. The music replayed in her head. The more she ruminated on the study, however, the more ill at ease she became. Perhaps thinking of the study would create a false variation: her own perspective of his study, rather than the actual thoughtform. Maybe this false study would even house a tulpa of her Father. Then there would be two of them. Dear Lamb, how could she prove there weren’t already? Was that something breathing in the distant dark? Pray for her, Elijah!

  With utmost caution, she thought on her Father. There were times in the real world when thoughts of him made her brain crawl in specific regio
ns, mostly around the amygdala. She needed care in turning down those slippery slopes of thought. Instead of thinking concretely about him, she evoked the feeling she experienced when she did, tried to feel as if she already sat in his study, talking to him, lungs full of sandalwood and cloves while his sickly fire licked its chops within its marble cage. There was the cold floor on her back and the taste of the wine and not the doppelgänger—not Cassandra. Instead, the clacking of pool balls, and the velvet of the crimson chair beneath her hands. Feeling small in that chair, like a child; feeling like a child again; feeling memory cut a different path: her hands flexing past that velvet, into fists, the Hierophant laughing to watch her box with Cicero in one of Mnemosyne’s gap-filling flashes. Above the huffs and puffs of a girl fighting her brother like she wanted to kill him, her Father said to the Lamb, “She is my little tiger, isn’t she.”

  That word echoed as if spoken aloud. “Tiger.” The slide through her memories and the association of her consciousness terminated there. Like a mind on the cusp of sleep, it grasped that final cogent thought, and rolled into it with a different kind of momentum than the one Valentinian had described. This was not the escape velocity by which a consciousness might slip free the surly bonds of Earth. This was more like falling: ecstatic falling. With the word “tiger” came all the associations of tigers, of being a tiger, of fur and teeth and claws. Facts: the tiger was the world’s most vengeful animal, could crush a skull with the swipe of a paw, went extinct due to poachers and climate problems in 2093 and was artificially renewed in 3545, 113 years before Morgan, unlucky human prototype Dominia, was born. But who was Morgan? She was not even sure of Dominia.

  Her mind was predisposed to seek the energy of a thing imagined, being in search of her Father’s study: with her heart so open, her ribs unfolded, and she turned inside out. The General lost sense of herself to her memories, then to her thoughts, and soon had so faint a notion of body it seemed perfectly reasonable she was a tiger, yes, a tiger, a beast of hot breaths and tremendous, heaving muscles that thundered into the darkness like an embodied storm, its shoulders, paws, jaws ready to strike with a might shaming the very lightning for their fury. To be a tiger was to be the physical condition of hunger, and that running hunger craved to be filled: sought the invisible meat it felt in the darkness. There arose the sensational hope of satiation to hear the breathing of a distant other, then the sound of that other’s feet upon the formless earth. Neon body flickering like a candle, this tiger rocketed through the black air into which its dark stripes melted until its eyes found that which it sought, a broad-soled and double-tusked beast that shook its long gray snout and galloped into the dark. After, after! Her heart pounded in her ears. There was no existence but for muscles, and the movement of muscles. She had no fear of getting lost, no sense of running farther from the fire, from her friends, from the Father for whom she had wandered into the dark before forgetting. There was no sense of self for her, this tiger. Only the hunt, the prey, so close she tasted it—