Lilith: a Biography: Doctor Jezebel Ethobaal,
WhoDoo Books and Periodicals
Ella looked down at her body lying forlorn on the cot in her cell, knowing that her spirit had soared free of her corporeal form. Indifferent to the chains that bound her, her spirit writhed like smoke through the Nine Worlds, her thoughts blown hither and thither by the Chorus of the Kosmos. Around her light looped and spun, spewing gobs of flaring sunlight that gybed with the shadows of Nothingness. Onward and deeper into the Kosmos she floated, urged on by the whispers from times long ago, whispers giddy with excitement.
Time passed – though it seemed nebulous, twisting and turning, mutating and merging the Now with the Then, with the Never-Was, with the What-Might-Have-Been and with the That-Which-Is-Yet-To-Come.
Suddenly she was still. In that instant her spirit settled, condensed back into a place that was just a sliver of her imagination, and gazing out into the Nothingness she saw herself gazing back.
Herself in the form of Lilith.
‘I am come, Ella,’ said Lilith, her unvoiced words heavy with foreboding. ‘This is your Awakening. The fires damped within you are now rekindled. You are Lilith reborn.’
‘Lilith? But Lilith is just a myth.’
‘A myth now made flesh: Doctor Mengele, by his meddling, has unleashed that which you had imprisoned inside yourself. It is time for you to finish the work which I – which you – began those many centuries ago.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You are no mere Fragile, Ella: you are a woman with powers and abilities denied those primitives. You have inherited the talents of the first Lilith, the Goddess born eleven thousand years ago in the now forgotten past, the first person ever to manifest overt powers of zoological heredity.’ Lilith sensed Ella’s befuddlement, ‘She was able to convey her ancestral memory and experiences to her daughters intact and by this gift of Atavistic Thought Inheritance, the whole of the knowledge and the experiences of that first Lilith were visited upon her daughters, who in turn passed this knowledge, supplemented by the knowledge they themselves acquired in their lifetimes, to their daughters and so on. You, Ella, are the last of the Lilithi, and within you carry the accumulated wisdom of five hundred generations of our race. The voices you hear clamouring in your head are the voices of your long dead sisters demanding that you listen to them. That is why I say to you: you are Lilith reborn … you are all the Lilithi reborn.’
Ella was silent. What Lilith was saying was simultaneously ridiculous and persuasive, persuasive because even as she lay there it was as though a veil was slowly drawn back from a previously hidden part of her mind, that suddenly she understood things that she could never believe it was possible to understand. But still her rationality provoked her to protest. ‘This is wrong. There isn’t any such thing as Atavistic Thought Inheritance. Genetics has shown it to be impossible.’
‘Forget genetics and listen to your own instincts … listen to your soul.’
‘But if I am Lilith reborn, why can’t I remember? Why don’t I have this race memory?’
‘You will, Ella, you will. It is held fast within you by pain, the pain of the loss of so many of your sisters when our world was destroyed by the Deluge. Thanks to Atavistic Thought Inheritance, the Lilithi created amongst themselves what de Chardin called a noösphere, a community bound together by a collective consciousness, and the result was that the Lilithi were so traumatised by the communal deaths of their sisters in the Deluge that they suppressed their racial memories … they forced themselves to forget. But through the serendipitous meddling of Mengele you are awoken. Soon your race memory will return to you and then you will know that the Lilithi were Goddesses who used their powers to better the lot of the Fragiles, who uncovered the secrets of life, of sex and of evolution … who were the first to domesticate the beasts of the field and tame the grasses of the plains. The Lilithi gave these miracles to humankind and a grateful humankind worshipped them as Goddesses, calling the first Lilith Mother Nature and making her divine.
‘Divine?’
‘Yes, and that is the gift I offer you: the gift of divinity. Look deep into yourself, Ella, and see what you once were, see Lilith standing at the dawn of time, bestriding the world like a colossus … a Goddess who remade humankind.’
‘But why?’
‘Because we had the power to take Destiny into our own hands and because we were dissatisfied by how dilatory evolution was. We sought to mould humankind into something more glorious, more powerful and more intelligent than nature ever imagined. In a time before history and in a land before memory over many thousands of years the Lilithi created their masterpieces. They decreed that there would be three races which would lift the world on their shoulders, three races which would ensure the safety and welfare of the Fragiles. The first of these were the Lilithi: the Priestesses who alone bore the gift of Atavistic Thought Inheritance. The second were the Kohanim: those bred to be the most intelligent of all peoples. And the third were the Grigori: the shield and the sword of the people of the Empire of the Lilithi.’
‘You played God.’
‘God? An obsolete Fragile concept. But whilst there is no God, Ella, there is a Goddess. You, Ella Thomas, are that Goddess, a Goddess with an obligation to lead humankind.’
‘Lead humankind where?’
‘To lead them to perfection, Ella, to finish the work so rudely interrupted by the Deluge. That is your destiny.’
Lilith fell silent and Ella tumbled into herself, plummeting deep into her unconscious. Only there, she knew, would she find understanding, only there would she be at one with the Kosmos and the Living. And as she tumbled so she felt herself changing, mutating, the very essence of her being, of her body and of her mind transmogrifying.
Ella could feel power crowding in on her. She felt strong … invincible. And as the power grew, she sensed the Living squirm in an ever-more-violent frenzy, twisting and spiralling around one another in a panicking dance. Their Mistress had returned: Lilith was reborn.
In the chill black cell where she lay, Ella smiled quietly to herself: how could she resist her destiny? How could she resist such a delicious temptation? Bole had connived to have Mengele release that which had lain dormant within her for all these long years, and now Bole would reap the consequences. This was one djinn that most certainly would not go back in its bottle. Oh, how the Worlds would tremble.
A sound invaded her thoughts, urging her to return to consciousness. She opened her eyes. She listened. They were coming for her. She sensed those in thrall to the Dark approaching. They had come to take her to her death.
Fools.
That they were intent on destroying her, she was indifferent to. She had felt Death’s frosted breath on her cheek too many times to shudder at its approach. And now, having come to understand that there was no Death, merely a merging with the Living, she was immune to fear. By defying Death, she would defy the Dark Charismatics and their masters, the Grigori.
Until …
Until she was ready to conquer them. Until she was ready to make them kneel once more at her command.
Silently she scolded herself for pursuing this perversely enjoyable thought. Now was not yet the time. She was not ready. There was still one who could deny her, one who could thwart her ambitions. Yes, Vanka Maykov had to be destroyed.
Although the Fragile part of her still loved the man and would weep bitter tears at his passing, she knew that he could not be allowed to live. If he ever came to know who he was – what he was …
No, nothing and no one could be allowed to stand between her and her destiny. There was too much at stake to surrender to Fragile sentimentality, not now that she had been given a second opportunity to fulfil all her ambitions. And ambition was, after all, the most delicious of temptations.
As the Inquisitors bent over her, she lay still, pretending to be asleep. She knew they were afraid of her, sensed that they were frightened of what she had become. Now she
could smell the fear of what they might have woken inside her.
Fools, if they only knew.
They shook her awake and then pulled her to her feet, telling her it was time for her sacrifice, and that she must take her place with the Living by becoming as one with the Dead. Then they manacled her wrists to heavy chains. She made no protest. Her fate wasn’t to be resolved here. Her destiny required her to be the dutiful prisoner …
For now.
And when she wished to be free, no manacles made by Fragiles could hold her. Fools. I am the tear you never shed, the nightmare that haunts your dreams, the silent scream that echoes in your memory. I am ferocious fantasy made flesh and blood. I am Lilith come again.
Part Two
The Storming of the Bastille and Escape from Paris
THE EDDIC OF LOCI 2: THE VANIR REMEMBERED
PLATE 2
11
The White House: Washington DC
The Real World: 17 August 2018
PanOptika is the ABBA-platformed program which links all surveillance apparatus (whether private or state-operated), all eyeSpies (whether private or state-operated) and all databases (whether private or state-owned) to produce a full 360° cyber-portrait of individual citizens. PanOptika was developed by ParaDigm CyberResearch for the British government and subsequently adopted (albeit reluctantly and only after extreme pressure from Britain) by the US government after the 12/12 atrocities.
iSuccess in GCSE-Dip: A Revision Guide to British
History, ParaDigm Publications
As the Humber Sentinel limousine swept around the drive leading up to the White House, Septimus Bole sat back in the cosseting luxury of the passenger compartment and tried to bring order to his thinking and calm to his frazzled nerves. But it was difficult. The metamorphosis of Ella Thomas had been a monumentally unsettling event and one which threatened to derail all his carefully laid plans. Moreover, it couldn’t have come at a worse time. The meeting he was en route to constituted one of those moments the historians at the Bole Institute of History termed a Nexus Point: the instant when the Postulated TimeStream veered off in a new direction.
He could not – must not – allow himself to be distracted.
Perhaps just a taste of blood?
Angrily he pushed the temptation away. Blood dependency was one of the defining traits of all Grigori and though he was only a Dark Charismatic, and hence genetically impaired by the contamination inherited from Fragile broodmare, he was still pure enough to have inherited their lust for blood. And blood did have such an invigorating effect on his spirits. But this, he knew, wasn’t the time for such indulgence.
He tried to control his thoughts, not wanting to dwell on the failures he’d suffered since Ella Thomas had been introduced into the Demi-Monde, a list of failures that was embarrassingly long. This girl – this Lilithian – had led a charmed life but now, it seemed, luck had finally deserted her. Captive in the Bastille and with Semiazaz and the other Grigori poised to enter the Demi-Monde, soon she would be dead. Even if de Torquemada failed him, Semiazaz most certainly would not.
With a determined effort Bole wrenched his attention back to the task at hand. Today his mission was nothing less than the remodelling of history. And the intriguing thing was that no one other than Aaliz Heydrich could even begin to appreciate what he was attempting, and even she was a mere pawn in the complex game of historical chess he was playing. And as for the President and his acolytes …
Bloody Americans.
Ever since their political and economic demise, following the end of the Second World War in 1946, the US had been desperately trying to climb back up the greasy pole of world domination.
Pathetic.
Unfortunately, their being reduced to the status of a second-class nation had done nothing to diminish their arrogance. They still treated Bole as a powerful but servile apparatchik: as a mere boffin. Clever certainly – too clever by half, according to General Zieliéski – but still hated as a Brit … as one of the Master Race.
Not that Bole was particularly concerned about this. As a Dark Charismatic, he was genetically conditioned to hate all Fragiles, and anyway, soon the Fragiles would be swept away. Today marked the beginning of the end of this ancien régime; from today all Fragiles would be nothing more than a superannuated anachronism, a species destined to go the same way as H. neanderthalensis. And today, with Bole’s help, they would take their first step on the road to extinction.
Skidding on the pristine gravel, the Humber came to a halt in front of the great house and an impeccably uniformed Marine sergeant stepped up to open the door. Bole ignored him, pausing for a moment to settle himself and to ensure that the countenance he would present to the President was calm, cool and collected.
Only when he was certain of his inner and outer sanguinity did Bole secure the wide-brimmed hat on his head – to ensure that it fully protected him from the afternoon sunshine – and allow himself to be led into the White House for his rendezvous with destiny.
As Bole entered the huge oak-panelled Kenton Room, all conversation stopped. The group of three men and one woman clustered around the large fireplace turned to examine their visitor and their vinegar expressions spoke volumes about how popular Professor Septimus Bole was with President Samuel Williams, his wife and his Chief of Staff, Nathaniel Armstrong. The antipathy was mutual: as far as Bole was concerned, each of them wore an aura of sanctity and moral certitude which he found repulsive. Since Williams had managed to tear the White House from the tenacious grip of the Kenton clan – and they could thank the impact of the 12/12 atrocity for that – he and his minions had come to view themselves as the bringers of hope and salvation to the people of America. These misguided fools had dedicated themselves to making the USA a fairer and a less divided land, where the strong protected the weak and everyone was ready to stretch out a helping hand. They wore their political piety like haloes, but Septimus Bole knew of only one word which adequately encapsulated his feelings towards such asinine aspirations. Twaddle!
For a second or two, Bole stood looking silently at the President, who in turn stood staring silently back. In Bole’s opinion, the President looked like a dyspeptic solicitor, his weakness signalled by the ridiculous way he was clinging to the hand of his wife, Mary, an excessively thin and habitually depressed individual much given to hysterics. She was dwarfed by the figure standing protectively behind her: the hugely fat and hugely obnoxious Nathaniel Armstrong.
It was the President who broke the ice. ‘Ah, Professor Bole, so good of you to attend us.’ He crossed the room to shake the Professor’s hand, which Bole extended with the greatest of reluctance. Touching Fragiles was something he found utterly distasteful; despite their love of perfume and cologne, they stank abominably. ‘I believe you know my other guests.’ Mary Williams and Nathaniel Armstrong nodded a begrudging greeting. Bole was indifferent to their lack of politeness; he was simply relieved he didn’t have to shake their hands, too. ‘If you would take a seat, Professor.’ The President gestured towards the single empty chair on one side of the long, narrow board-room table, facing the row of three chairs which the other attendees were obviously intent on occupying. This layout suggested it would be a very confrontational meeting, with Bole on one side of the table and his inquisitors on the other.
Excellent.
*
Once everyone was settled, the President began. ‘As you know, Professor Bole, my daughter was returned to us two weeks ago, after her unfortunate sojourn in the Demi-Monde. During this time, Norma has undergone a full-spectrum medical evaluation at the Walter Reed Hospital, and the doctors there are satisfied that physically she is in remarkably good shape.’
‘I am delighted to hear it.’ Bole smiled at the President.
‘However, although Norma is physically fine, she does seem to be suffering from some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder.’
‘And how does this manifest itself?’
‘In profound amnes
ia.’
Bole shrugged. ‘This isn’t unusual, Mr President. Our experience with neoFights returning from the Demi-Monde is that almost 30 per cent suffer from some form of amnesia. They find the rather visceral ambience of that world somewhat overwhelming, and their minds adopt a defensive posture, shutting out those memories that are found most distasteful. In most cases, this memory degradation is merely a temporary phenomenon.’
‘This isn’t a “memory degradation”, Professor,’ Mary Williams protested. ‘Norma can’t remember anything. She doesn’t remember her friends or family. She’s got no memory of the White House or her school. She can’t even remember her dog.’ The First Lady paused to dab a tear from her eye. ‘Even her accent has changed. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that she wasn’t the same girl.’
Bole tried to imitate sympathy. ‘This does seem rather profound.’
The President took his wife’s hand in his and gave it a comforting squeeze. ‘As you might imagine, Professor, this has been a very trying time for my family. And with you being the expert on the Demi-Monde, I’ve invited you here today in the hope that you might be able to help Norma.’
Bole sighed and spread his hands to indicate his helplessness. ‘It is standard operating procedure that all neoFights back up their pre-deployment memories using PINC technology.
Rod Rees - [The Demi-Monde 02] Page 11