by M F Sullivan
Her promotion to Governess after the Reclamation of Mexico had paused a great deal of violence because, feared though the General was, she had also been known for her reasonability. Even before Cassandra’s compassionate influence, Dominia had served the Hierophant as a leveling force, and was, one might argue, the most stable member of the Holy Family. Cicero was hungry to sweep up all humanity as though they were game pieces to be dumped in a box and taken out for his amusement. The Lamb was beaten down by years of his husband’s abuse and a constant barrage of prayers. Theodore too often whined about his lack of opportunity, and the nebulous plans that he would never have the chance to see to fruition. And Lavinia wasn’t even allowed to change her hair without their Father’s permission, not after just shy of sixty-seven years of conscious life. Amid this ill assortment of dysfunction, Dominia the Governess had sat at the Hierophant’s right hand whenever she slipped past Cicero, and advised Cassandra’s routes of compassion: disguised as a General’s practicality, of course. The Hierophant agreed to maintain his control of Mexico and descend no further into America once she pointed out how profoundly humans had damaged rain forests and sucked up natural resources before and during his rise to power, from 75 BL to 300 AL Since so many of their descendants worked to restore the environment, was it not sensible to wait, to let them do the fixing, and swoop in when Earth was healthy again?
Yes, that did make sense to him. He had agreed, no doubt knowing she delayed him to spare a few generations of human life. She nursed the hope that his desire to use America like a great, money-filled pitcher plant would depart him, as had many of his more bloodthirsty qualities. Funny though it was to say of the man who had torn out her eye, but the Hierophant had become gentler than he’d been when she was a girl. In those nights, he was more like Cicero, more desirous to claim everything the planet had to offer. That hunger had left him—or at least had relaxed in him—around the time Lavinia appeared.
Hard to explain, Lavinia. She was the Western world’s idol, a pure and innocent dove cooped up in the castle for her own protection. Technically, she was the Duchess of Florence, and the owner of several palaces; but that was only as most rich human girls owned their own pony, kept in the stables of their father’s summer house. The most troubling aspect of Lavinia’s personality was that, in person, she was every bit as innocent and sheltered as that young, horse-loving inheritor—if a bit temperamental, as all spoiled children. She was a novelty in many ways, but the strange tale of her origin and that long coma made her a walking treasure: proof that the protein was a miraculous, life-giving gift from God. Not a burden from which too many martyrs someday sought or met some tragic escape, as had poor Cassandra. Dominia’s hand landed upon her clavicle. That space where the diamond should have rested. Miki Soto.
Was it her real name? Probably not. The DIOX-I offered many details available about each translation, a list of virtual footnotes that unfurled when she concentrated on the dot at the corner of each translated phrase. Thus, it was that Dominia discovered the characters of the name “Miki” as it was written on the Halcyon account—美樹—meant “beautiful tree.” “Soto” meant “outsider.” This was fine, but raised doubt in Dominia’s mind as to its veracity when she considered that “Soto”—in addition to being one letter off from “Sato,” the “Smith” of Japanese surnames—meant “copse” (as in, “of trees”) in Spanish. The eye was eager to give a lot of information about those two details; she could have fallen into a rabbit hole of speculation about more meanings, such as the complex cultural meaning of the word “soto,” as she could have on a lazy Noctisdomin while browsing her wristwatch. But the most interesting thing to Dominia about the DIOX-I was the accessibility of—well, everything in Japan, so far as the Internet was concerned. In Europa and the United Front, the situation was different. Internet access—to books, in particular—was gated through various insidious means the people had come to accept as normal.
The first barrier was economic. If an individual did not have money to pay fees for the device of their choice and its monthly maintenance, they could count on limited to no Internet access depending on the resources in their neighborhood. This meant they had no Halcyon, which, as the standard profile for every global citizen, martyr or human, was the central network by means of which one accessed all of one’s personal accounts, such as banking and electronic mail. Such a “ghost citizen” had no way to find and apply for work, housing, or even, in a cruel twist of irony that Dominia had fought hard to fix, welfare and health care above and beyond the Universal Basic Income—which, in the case of souls so impoverished they had no bank account, was paid into the rent and (government-purchased) food bills of the account-less recipient. Universal Basic Income, therefore, was an illusion. The mere existence of the Halcyon banking and social system made United Front poverty a cyclical trap. A third of the human population was thus disqualified from access to the Internet and to any knowledge that might save them. The second third of potential learners was knocked out by the pay gates for the websites of their choice: most people opted to spend their hard-earned money and precious free time on pornography, movies of a less explicit nature, and video games, rather than the high annual subscription fee of La Biblioteca. And then there was La Biblioteca, itself.
Every book ever created existed within the digital halls of La Biblioteca, in original and translated variations. Organized centuries before her birth, the sum of human knowledge, glorious and shining and difficult to access. La Biblioteca was free to her, being the daughter of the Hierophant, but it was also censored of religious books, a fact about which she’d neither know nor care until centuries later, when she raised an army to turn back upon her Father. In those nights soon after coming to live with her new Family, she was given a tablet: a square of glass she’d heard discussed but never seen before that moment, which in her case accessed La Biblioteca and nothing else. She could read whatever she pleased, whenever she pleased, and so she did. Books became her most desperate means of escape from her strange new reality, that terrible upside-down way of living, which grew, in a sadly observable manner, more normal every day. Gradually, she stopped feeling bad as she thought about the humans who had died for her meals; it wasn’t long before she saw one being killed without getting broken up about it, so long as she remembered to detach herself and keep busy, keep reading, when she was later at risk of being alone with her thoughts.
Sometimes she read passive-aggressively, hoping to provoke him, but he was unmovable. Once, at twelve, she lay under the moon in their gardens and consumed Aldous Huxley. She’d just finished Orwell’s 1984, and in Winston’s tale found, in foreshadowing of the rebellious teen into which she’d sour, many obvious connections to her Father’s regime. But the plight of Oceania only resembled in part the state of affairs experienced by her Father’s humans (and, of course, martyrs). Indeed, when she moved to the logical follow-up, she found the truth closer to Huxley’s dystopia—even if the saucy text was, to her young mind, quite embarrassing throughout. The more “adult” nature of the text that her Father had negligently allowed her to access was perhaps what inspired her to blurt as the Hierophant trimmed his roses, “I’m reading Brave New World.”
“Are you?” Far from displeased, he offered a playful shake of his head. “Will you be inspired to whip our world into a frenzy, my little freethinker?”
“I don’t understand why you were allowed to get so far when books like this exist.”
This further delighted him. “That is the funny thing about such books, my dear. Tired people, as Huxley will tell you, don’t want to think: and when they do want to think, they want to think of happy things. Not sad and dreadful things. They want their neighbors to do the thinking for them, and save them from what they must do themselves.”
“But why don’t you destroy all the books? Like in that Bradbury one.”
“Oh, I love books! I would never, ever do that. I love books, and I love to see humans crave knowledge. Never would I den
y anyone the right to learn. Instead, I have arranged the system so learning comes at cost; and so that only people of a certain age and a certain education and a certain situation even have the option of certain books. People are more understanding of being denied knowledge when they are told it is distributed based on income. Even location is an acceptable barrier! Many a member of the Front curious about political texts has seen the disappointing disclaimer, “This Book Is Only Available in Europa.” And why would most of them read a book when they’ve instant access to any movie, any game, any television show once their eight hours of work are done?”
As he resumed clipping his roses, she realized he was right, and returned to Brave New World less keen for his approval. Behind her, he said, “We must get you reading Shakespeare, my girl, if you like dear old Aldous.”
VIII
Miki Soto
What couldn’t a person access from the Japanese Internet? The question inspired Dominia to get out of the bathtub for another look at the card. There was no address, whether web or physical, as there hadn’t been an address on the ad floating across that billboard; instead, when she studied the lotus embossed upon the card, the DIOX-I highlighted it as though it were a link. How fascinating, this augmented reality! After fixing the device’s settings back to manual control, she “clicked” on the link with an unsteady wink, and her right field of vision was covered by the floating window of a browser. Had she cochlear implants, she would have heard some sort of music, or even a voice accompanying the woman’s writhing in and out of the browser’s dark: less a whole person, and more a disembodied assortment of lips, fingers, lower backs, and thighs. At last, the vision disappeared to present her with the crimson words, “WELCOME TO THE RED MARKET.”
A button appeared: “Connect Your Halcyon for Age Verification.” The idea of giving the women of the international and highly loathed illegal organization any information might have stopped her in a simpler time, as it surely stopped 70 percent of potential Red Market customers—the ones able to access the site, anyway, inaccessible from Europa and the Front through traditional routes. That had been all the Hierophant could do to combat in any meaningful way the world’s oldest profession-cum-cult. Far trickier than hampering Internet access was controlling in-person transactions in gold or silver, or the off-brand cryptocurrency, Redcoin; and because there were almost no freelance prostitutes left in the world, catching a working girl was difficult.
The Red Market took great pains to train its women, all de facto priestesses, on avoiding martyrs and questionable humans. One of their preventative measures was the Halcyon background check. Though used by almost every human being on Earth who could afford to keep a device and maintain an account, the social network was, in truth, her Father’s project, going way back before she was born. It ground his gears to know it was used by the Market, but those very data-securing technologies that allowed the rise of digital currencies also made other forms of data more secure, and easier to spoof. Once the spoofing was discovered, however, it was always too easy for security agents employed by the Holy Father to lock down offending accounts. This was particularly devastating to a citizen of Europa or the Front. In an instant, alleged criminals lost access to everything: not just bank accounts and photographs, but access to other websites, e-mails, bus passes.
All the more reason to use the profile of Dominique LeBlanc: but with the DIOX-I already logged into her previously frozen Halcyon, she was as stuck as she was surprised to see her finances once again liquid. The bank account page showed its seven-digit number in cheerful cerulean, and her stocks were once more available for manipulation. The Holy Father was tracking her transactions, of course—but the mood she was in, let him see his money pour into the coffers of prostitutes. She didn’t care anymore.
Dominia gave the website her consent and was approved within five seconds. While she marveled at the ease of access, the DIOX-I opened a new page. This looked more like a fashion website than an application by means of which one ordered a prostitute. A banner featuring a well-off, smiling pair of women rolled across her view, then panned up to reveal their “mission statement,” which involved, “Celebrating the sexual liberty of the body,” and “Connecting to the core of femininity.” What any of that meant to somebody interested in getting laid, Dominia had no idea; but she had the feeling she was on a version of the website meant to appeal to her demographic. In this case, lonely rich women more interested in sexual experimentation or temporary companionship than the quick and dirty lay desired by someone like, say, René.
After selecting “Our Girls” from the site’s navigation menu, she was confronted by a page of a great many charming—and clothed—animated images: each girl posing, laughing, clapping like a fashion model before a white background. A few of them waved as though they saw Dominia scrolling past, recalling Mimi Shin and her slipping cap. Each moving image was embossed with a lotus watermark, the girl’s name, and a flag demarking her region. There were forty girls on each page, and at least 124 pages that were accessible to her. Rather than shuffling through them one page at a time, she tried the search function and found, relieved, a “GIRLS NEAR ME” feature. Better than sorting them by location, race, and age, as though they were a bunch of jackets. She tried it and watched the lotus cursor load until she was brought to a map that zoomed in to reveal they already neared Beijing. Three dots traveled at her rapid pace, though two were grayed out, meaning the girls in question were either booked up or weren’t working. The third dot, however, nearest to the navy dot marking her location, was active tangerine. It resulted in yet another window: a new image of a waving model whose name, “MIKI SOTO,” scrolled beneath her feet while she blew Dominia a mocking kiss.
The profile was filled to the brim with statistics, even more than her Halcyon: height, weight, bust, waist, hips; eye and hair color; blood type and birthday horoscopes; education; favorite films; favorite foods; favorite kinks. At the bottom a status read, “Miki is: OCCUPIED” with a frowny face emotive icon, which meant she wasn’t open for video chat. The “Book an Appointment” button, however, was promising and bright as candy. When she blinked past it, the appointment page opened with a same-day booking highlighted on its calendar. Even more promising. Though skeptical as to whether it was as easy as making an appointment, Dominia couldn’t come up with a better plan. At least, not a more straightforward one. Since she wasn’t willing to engage in an unnecessary conflict after suffering through so many already, this seemed the best choice. As her Father had taught her, the courteous path was the correct one. If information could be acquired without violence or tedious espionage, was that not the preferable path? She hoped as she booked the appointment that gentility was even an option, and that Miki was reasonable. When reason failed, violence was all that was left, and the General had wearied of that.
With the request for an appointment one hour out pending in the corner of her vision, Dominia dressed. Undershirt on, she was stopped short by her reflection, and the realization that she now saw herself for the first time since her procedure. Good as new, that eye, and yet it was somehow—wrong. Flatter, perhaps, in its coloring? Not quite the periwinkle of its predecessor and more a soft seawater aqua that depended on ambient lighting to give its colors life. How strange, like a new scar to which she needed adapt. The DIOX-I was already adapting to its new home (according to that peppy anime girl) and, within a few weeks, would be comfortable as if it had always been there. Reliable as her old organic model. Nothing to it, except for all those psychological ramifications.
The eye looked so different to her, was so much a symbol of irrevocable loss, that she could not imagine how, to the outside, it looked normal. To the outside, she looked herself. Dangerously herself. With a frown for the long hair to which she’d been attached all of her life, she shuffled through the drawers until a pair of scissors emerged. With these, she clipped away her still-damp locks. It was as though she heard the Hierophant—and Cicero, for that matter—tsking over h
er shoulder between every snip, insisting her new hair was, “Fine, if that was how she wanted to look.”
“Androgynous stockbroker” was not the look she wanted on a regular basis, strictly speaking, but it was what she needed if she meant to meet a high-paying escort in the Dining Car. It was also going to be necessary at one point or another in the Middle States. Dressing as a man sent a simpler message to Abrahamians than being a strong woman. Of course, try being gay! Most of them understood better now, but there were a few pocket regions of extremists, like the Hunters, who eschewed all homosexual behavior and considered it a sign of degeneracy in human beings: unnatural activity made acceptable by the Hierophant because it was evil. However, as the Hierophant had explained to Dominia, he did not do things because they were evil. He did things because they were sensible. It got the rational people on his side when it seemed he did the opposite of what all history’s other dictators had thought to do. So women in history were reviled at worst and, at best, subjugated by means of disenfranchisement or dress code? Good. When the Hierophant came, he loved them and they loved him in return. It was human women and sensitive California liberals who formed the early basis of his political power in the UF and the barren land once known as Russia, before he got the conservatives into his pockets. Abortions? Yes. Homosexuality? Yes. Female priests? Yes, yes, yes. But coveting thy neighbor’s wife, or murder? Of course not. The Hierophant was a man of law and order: a higher order. The order of God that escaped the minds of primitives such as the Hunters, who had been relegated to the status of terrorist organization even within their home territories. She would have to deal with them, too, and soon. Dominia might have shattered a mirror for frustration were it not for René outside.