[47] Pride
The cameras and the people watched the humble little stage, which stood at the center of an arena filled with rows and rows of seats. But the stage itself was humble, adorned only by an unused podium and the young but pretty girl who paced upon it and spoke. Due to the light, due to the separation the camera lenses created between what they watched and the monitors that displayed the watched thing, she could not see a single person to whom she spoke. Regardless, she spoke well.
"Consider the moment of darkness we were brought to. The destruction, the calamity. Many saw the devils streaming through the streets and said: Oh God in Heaven, this is surely the apocalypse! Why will you not save your righteous, as you foretold? They could not understand his plan. His design. They lost faith! But, my friends, faith is the one thing you cannot lose. The one thing that cannot be taken from you; it can only be forgotten, forever or merely for a short time.
"There is a fable they tell. It goes like so: A sultan asks the great and wise King Solomon for an aphorism that will remain true whether times are good or bad. King Solomon said simply: 'This too shall pass.' In the Bible, we're given another aphorism: 'There is nothing new under the sun.' God has known his designs from the very beginning, before Earth or space or time existed. All shall pass as he has planned; and all that exists or will exist is as he has ordained.
"From the dark times when devils roamed the land, we have arisen anew, exactly as he always intended. It was through pain that we may taste now sweetness, that we may look upon a world renewed, refreshed, revitalized. Evil, beaten freshly back, has departed not only our hearts but the soil itself, and the plants and the animals. You see the signs every time you turn on the news: Food is growing—in a way inexplicable to known science!—taller, stronger, thicker than ever before. Creatures believed endangered are populating at a greater rate, roaming the forests and the seas. People afflicted with terminal diseases find themselves miraculously cured; bodies are healthier, stronger, they age more slowly, there is talk that some among us may live as long as Methuselah: 969 years! How has this come to be? How is this new prosperity upon us, this new paradise on Earth? It is because, by God's great design, he has drawn out the world's evil and defeated it.
"And in his bounty he has given us yet another gift. A new world! The astronomers report it without doubt: The planet Mars, once red and lifeless, is now green and teeming with life. Already our scientists assemble a mission to chart this second planet, so that humanity may extend its reach as God intends. We suffered, and now we are rewarded; now hope and faith run as abundant as the once-turgid Cuyahoga River that winds through this city!
"As in Biblical times, God has bestowed upon us a champion, a new Joshua. Rather than fight against the Canaanite tribes for the glory of Israel, our champion fought against the legions of Hell for the glory of humanity. I was fortunate to fight alongside him as he stormed the tower of Pandaemonium, and today it is my honor to watch him board the first ship to Mars as the leader of this pioneering expedition. I ask all of you now to bend your heads in prayer for this champion, this hero, Jay Waringcrane. Pray for his safety on his journey, and pray also in thanks for the newfound peace God has bestowed upon us. Heavenly Father..."
After the amen she handed the stage back to the senior pastor, Justin "Just" Vance, who managed the transition with weightless grace. "Thank you, Mayfair. Folks, please give a round of applause to our featured speaker, Miss Mayfair Coke!"
The applause lasted as she left the stage. When it died, Just Vance launched into one of those humorous tales he liked to tell at the beginning of his sermons. Mayfair didn't care to listen. She wandered through the backstage workers, accompanied by silent security guards who followed her everywhere, until Vance's amplified voice finally resolved into an unintelligible quiver that ran through the bowels of the megachurch.
Somehow, no small number of the living humans who accompanied them on their journey up Pandaemonium survived. Swiftly a narrative emerged about the heroes who defeated the devils, foremost among them Jay Waringcrane, though Shannon and Mayfair and even the martyred Mallory factored into events too.
Mayfair expected Jay or Shannon might contest the emerging narrative and paint Mayfair as a villain, but neither did. Jay said little of anything (which greatly contributed to his popularity), and Shannon, who had other goals, must have realized it was to her benefit if Mayfair and Mallory were seen as heroes.
Meanwhile, Vance had already planned to put Mayfair in front of an international stage, so now she stood in her current position as the most famous and beloved preacher in the world. It greatly enriched Vance, who owned the church and the television rights.
Ah, but that was cynical. Did it not enrich Mayfair too? Was this not what she always wanted? To be loved?
She often received envoys from Whitecrosse, sent by Duke Meretryce of all people. Asking her to take the throne, as was her birthright now that her mother and brother were dead. Ignoring her hand in their deaths...
Mayfair knew Meretryce well enough; he sought someone he thought he might manipulate. Her understanding was that he had lost his grip on political power and retired—somewhat unwillingly—from the court. Even ignoring his schemes, though, Mayfair decided she ought not return to Whitecrosse. She failed her mission, no matter what else was said of her; she failed to imbue the people with humanity, with God's grace.
This failure couldn't simply be forgotten. Demny had not forgotten; as Pandaemonium dissolved around them, she turned without a word and trotted away. She followed someone else now, and Mayfair was followed instead by these anonymous bodyguards with their sunglasses, men as lively as Dalton Swaino's corpse, and as talkative. Vance spoke little to her outside of official business, and the fanatics who thronged around her built for themselves a Mayfair Rachel Lyonesse Coke who did not exist, possessed of exploits she had not performed, virtues she did not embody. The Mayfair they loved was not her. And, in turn, she did not love them either. She gave her sermons as expected. She spoke with all her ingrained training. Lifeless, mechanical—a trained dog, a reciter of tricks in exchange for a treat.
Mayfair sighed. It was all so tiresome now.
Everyone seemed so happy. Everyone looked forward with such purpose. Everyone believed her sermons that she did not herself believe. Mayfair was the aberration. The singular malcontent within this pleasant, paradisial status quo. Haunted by personal failure, personal guilt, and constant loneliness. She thought of her mother. That one moment of reconciliation, their hands together. A release, a catharsis, a resolution, and yet the moment passed. Mayfair could not rely upon it for the rest of her life. She must move forward.
How? By leaving this world, as Jay Waringcrane had done, as he intended to do again? Escaping to some other reality. Hm. How well had it worked for him?
"Hey," said someone.
Mayfair stopped. Her thoughts, consuming her, blinded her to her environs until she manifested the effort to sense again. She stood in some lower corridor of the megachurch, a route utterly vestigial to whatever vague destination she had in mind—the parking lot, perhaps, where her bodyguards would ferry her to the abode Vance provided her now that Pastor Styles's home was no longer an option—a place simply for her to walk and think in peace.
Nobody normally came down here. But someone stood before her. It was Mademerry, wearing clothes custom-tailored on account of her wings and tail. She retained her uncanny knack for finding Mayfair no matter where she went.
"You... seem upset," Mademerry said.
"It's nothing," Mayfair said.
"I don't think that's true."
"How would you know?"
Mademerry hesitated. Her shoulders slouched and her reptilian eyes refused to meet Mayfair's. Given how much Mademerry helped during the Pandaemonium quest, Mayfair made a conscious effort not to rebuke her so much. Vance, of course, didn't want her around. Her inhuman features might give the wrong idea to the "flock," as he called them.
"I guess," Mademerry said, "I don't really know. There was that woman, do you remember her? With the red hair. She could see right through someone and know exactly what they felt. I'm not like that but... It's not so hard to see something's wrong with you now."
To maintain her trained act, Mayfair ought to push her away, remind her they were not to be seen together, regurgitate all of Vance's valid concerns with her appearance. Her appearance that was like Mayfair's, only merged with a lizard, crawling and base, a hollow mockery of herself and a leering memory of her brother.
Well. That was how Mayfair once saw her. Now, the corrupted mirror image no longer churned her stomach. Indeed, she wondered how "corrupted" it was at all.
"You uh, you don't have to talk about it," Mademerry said. "But maybe... Maybe we could... do something together? Something fun?"
"Fun." The word sounded alien.
"Maybe we could watch a movie at the theater. Uh, well, never mind. It's stupid for me to say that. I know I'm not supposed to be out in public. I'm sorry. I'll leave now—"
"No," Mayfair said, "I like it. A movie. Let's do it."
"Miss Mayfair," one of her bodyguards said. "That's a bad idea."
It was the first thing she'd ever heard him say. It solidified her resolve. "As long as it isn't one of those horribly violent ones, like what they forced us to watch in the tower." She stepped forward and took Mademerry's claw in her hand. The scales were smooth and delicate. "They must have films in this world with strong moral quality."
Mademerry stared at their hands together. She stammered: "I—I looked up a few you might like—I mean—I didn't expect you to actually say yes so—Maybe I didn't research as uh, as thoroughly as I should have—"
"I'm sure it's fine," Mayfair said. "Let's go."
"R—right!"
Hand in hand, dogged by bodyguards, they walked together. And perhaps something finally started to heal.
—
The wriggling little creature gripped its foot and giggled. Sansaime stared down at it. It was, of course, her baby. And it wasn't an it but a he, and she struggled to understand him.
The former Elf-Queen left behind this palatial chamber now converted into the baby's room, a broad square space with ornate tiling and full walls of windows that let in sunbeams. In this midday peace all was quiet save the baby's giggles.
Beyond the windows spanned Faerie Land. Or rather, the court of the elves. Landscaped into an outdoor courtyard, with a fountain depicting the previous Elf-Queen (no point changing it, Sansaime figured) and a throne. A few elves walked from one end to another, and a couple more sat on a blanket stretched over the grass and conversed. When Temporary first dragged Sansaime here, past the final barrier Sansaime's mother never dared take her, the surviving elves reclined in states of total lethargy. They looked similar to someone watching TV, without the TV. Slowly, though, they started to stir. Temporary claimed this proved they accepted Sansaime as the new Elf-Queen. But really, with Temporary running around like an idiot (falling on her face every five seconds) and making such a racket all the time, they probably woke up from sheer annoyance.
Sansaime didn't mind making use of the palace facilities in the interim. Temporary's fussing and busy-bodying tested patience at first, but as Sansaime became increasingly pregnant she came to appreciate it. Especially when the nasty business of the actual birth occurred. For all her other faults, Temporary handled that with aplomb. Who knew where she learned it all. Maybe she never did. Maybe she operated on instinct. It reminded Sansaime of someone else she once knew. And nestled comfortably within the presence of that memory, Sansaime felt—that things weren't so bad. Despite the pain and confusion and uncertainty that surrounded the wriggling thing giggling in his crib before her, Sansaime could not call herself miserable. Nor even numb. In fact...
Looking down at him...
He was actually rather cute!
She held out a finger and he wrapped his hand around it. His giggling subsided into inquisitive babble. Sansaime checked over her shoulder. The door was closed. She looked out the window. Nobody staring inside at her. Nobody in the room except her and him.
She covered her face with her hands. Then, she pulled her hands away, boggled her eyes, and stuck out her tongue. The baby squealed with delight, kicking his feet and—
The door flew open and Temporary tumbled inside. Sansaime shielded her face and quickly put on a more serious expression, though a harshly heated blush speckled her cheeks.
"What is it! I'm busy here," Sansaime said.
"Huff, oof, yes, sorry, so very sorry!" Temporary jumped to her feet, placed her fist on the top of her head, and stuck out her tongue. "News to report, Your Majesty!"
"I told you not to call me that."
"Yes, hm, well. Anyway! That person you hired from Cleveland has finally arrived. He's a little mad because he got lost on the way, but he's ready to set up that 'generator' thing you were talking about."
Oh. Right. With help from Shannon Waringcrane, who apparently ran things in Whitecrosse Castle now, Sansaime had gotten ahold of an electrician so that she might power a few electronic devices here in Faerie Land. A TV, a computer, video games, and so on. Sansaime had much to do as the so-called "queen" of the elves, let alone the matter of caring for her baby, but a few diversions wouldn't hurt. Sansaime learned that some games are "multiplayer," meaning two people can play together, and she thought she might make Temporary learn to play to liven things up.
"Sure," Sansaime said, "but did you truly need to interrupt me for that?"
"Well... There's something else too."
Less good news, Sansaime assumed. Before she had a chance to ask what, though, the news made itself known by zipping through the open door and shouting in Sansaime's face.
"Oh, oh, oh! It's unacceptable! Unacceptable I tell you! Something needs to be done about it, NOW!"
Olliebollen Pandelirium sputtered this way and that, spewing her noxious dust, and causing the baby to laugh even harder than at Sansaime's funny face. The baby loved Olliebollen.
"What is it this time," Sansaime said.
"Humans! Humans in the forest! Trampling over everything! Going everywhere! Bothering, bothering, bothering! Look. I have a court to rebuild. I'm still getting the hang of this 'reproduction' thing—"
"Same here," said Sansaime.
"—And I can't go being disturbed by these humans all the time!"
"I explained that we asked the electrician man to come here," Temporary said.
"It's not the electri-whatsit! It's tourists! They come from Cleveland to look around. I can't stand it. We need to work together to keep them away. We're the last remaining rulers of the fae courts—"
"Don't forget Flanz-le-Flore."
"Well—well we're the last remaining ones who matter! That means we need to work together. I'm willing to put aside my differences with you elves for this. Let bygones be bygones. But I need your help, okay?"
The baby reached up, but was too slow to grab Olliebollen's dangling legs. This did not diminish his entertainment, nor did the adorable sneeze he made when too much dust flitted down.
"So what are we gonna do, Elf-Queen? I got some ideas. We could build traps. We dig these big holes in the ground—this is what I need your help for—and cover them up with leaves. The stupid humans don't watch where they're going, step on the leaves, and BOOM! Down to the bottom, where we've placed a bunch of sharp sticks—"
"We're not killing the humans, Olliebollen."
"Ugh. Then what?"
Sansaime shrugged. She could not fathom what the baby found so riotous in this annoying sprite. "Try talking to Shannon Waringcrane. She might be able to do something."
"The castle's too far. You know I can't leave my court for that long!"
"Oh, I can go," Temporary said. "I'm an ambassador, after all. That sort of thing's my job."
No. Sansaime needed Temporary. This was all so much hullabaloo. "There's no need for any of that. I'll ask the electrician for a phone. Then I can call Shannon."
This solution sent both Temporary and Olliebollen into silence. Neither had considered it, despite how obvious it was. Then again, neither of them spent as much time among modern humans as Sansaime.
The dust settled as Olliebollen calmed. A brief silence fell over the room, broken only by the baby's giggle. Sansaime looked down at the baby and, despite all the irritation of life, could not help but smile. She lifted the baby out of his crib, holding him against her shoulder as he cooed. No matter what, she thought, things would turn out okay. The baby didn't have a scar on him; he was smooth and unblemished, and Sansaime would ensure he stayed that way.
—
For intrepid thrill seekers, fanciers of certain religious or occult persuasions, historians specializing in medieval to early modern Europe, or high-stakes YouTubers, no locale on Earth was more appealing than the islands of Whitecrosse and California, situated in the middle of Lake Erie. Although officially off-limits while the American and Canadian governments sorted out issues of jurisdiction and sovereignty, nepotistic corruption was known to dole out permits to individuals who perhaps did not require them, and an illicit ferry market had sprung up on the Ohioan and Ontarian coasts. The disarray of all branches of the United States military in the wake of the December 2017 Devil Attacks (so named on Wikipedia) and the pressing need for able-bodied troops to assist in the nationwide rebuilding effort rendered the naval blockade of the landmasses spotty at best, so these ferries were able to land undetected most of the time.
Equipped with high-resolution satellite imagery at levels of detail unfathomable to local surveyors, these tourists visited innumerable spots of anthropologic or naturalistic interest. After the acting head of Whitecrosse Shannon Waringcrane became aware of the tourists and the nuisance they posed, she stationed troops at many of the main points of interest (the now-closed Door, the monastery, and of course the gates of Whitecrosse city) to detect and report their comings-and-goings, which she would then relay to the appropriate officials in the American and Canadian governments so that they might extract the difficult parties. She was, however, frequently frustrated by the leisurely pace at which these officials responded.
Regardless, shrewder tourists kept either to the wilder areas of Whitecrosse or the comparatively less interesting California, whose young king lacked Waringcrane's strict adherence to regulation and often welcomed travelers as celebrated guests of his court. However, there remained many tourists who wished to see the places where Jay Waringcrane, the world's greatest hero, went on his adventure, and so invariably some of them made ill-advised nighttime traipses into the thin forest that ran along Whitecrosse's northeastern crescent like a scar, and which divided Whitecrosse city from the mountain range where the monastery presided. With electric lighting still sparse throughout the islands despite both Shannon Waringcrane and the King of California's attempts to introduce it, some tourists believed they might be able to evade troop patrols under cover of darkness. Their maps, GPS systems, state-of-the-art compasses, and flashlights would guide them through the forest without fail—or so they thought.
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Not long after they set their course, they often found their phones and devices acting strangely, screens flickering, arrows pointing odd directions, connections lost. Their flashlights failed to penetrate more than a few feet into the miasmic dark of the wood. Those wise enough to turn around reported feeling a malevolent aura weigh upon them, a feeling of being watched by eyes both hateful and strangely piteous, as though they were an ant struggling to escape a pool of water.
For those who did not turn around, who perhaps shook off this aura as a trick of the imagination, a psychological reaction to the dark and forbidding forest, no report remains.
But someone knows what happened to them.
For in this forest there is a place that does not cohere to natural logic, a structure without boundary or wall but which becomes enclosed the moment you step inside. An interior that can be anything or anywhere, a fine garden under sunlight, a corridor full of paintings, or a theater with a wooden stage and a throne made of branches. Those who stray too close may hear singing, or laughing, or the applause of a large crowd, and finding that human familiarity welcome come closer, closer still, until the seats of the theater appear before them, filled with all sorts of people from around the world—people who blundered into this wood before them—and a funny little show playing, the actors animals who gallivanted with as much emotion as any human player. There's safety here, they think, and peace blooms within them as heavily as the forest's aura had before, and clearly a lot of others are having a good time, so what's the harm in resting a bit and watching? Once the show ends, they'll leave the forest together, so the weary explorer thinks.
So they watch.
And watch.
And watch.
In time some may come to notice the tree at the back of the stage, which grows out of the throne of branches. It is a strange tree, unlike any seen on Earth, with large leaves that radiate sunlight upon the players in patterns relevant to the performance. Most curious about this tree, though, was that its branches and roots fed into a body shaped strangely like a human's, though tinted green. The figure lacked arms (the plant grew from where they once were), and its head lolled, and its legs splayed out to reveal a pair of dusty brown boots, but upon the throne she sat, watching—always watching.
If the erstwhile travelers ever noticed the figure of Flanz-le-Flore, queen of this realm, their attention did not remain upon her long. There was always a new performance, a new festival of lights and sounds. The entertainment continued; it continued; it continued.
It continued.
Peaceful and happy, united in the emotion of this moment without end, they all watched together.
—
The onetime throne room of Whitecrosse Castle, renovated after the fire, buzzed with activity. Its central location in the castle made it the most obvious hub for communications and planning, and Shannon had a lot to do.
"Yes, I'm aware of the issue with the tourists. Yes. Yes. I'm doing everything I can. Yes. I'll continue to—Yes! I know! Alright. Goodbye, Sansaime."
She ended the call and expelled an exasperated sigh as she handed her phone off to Gonzago. "Something the matter?" he asked.
"We need to hire people to help with the patrols." Shannon rubbed the bridge of her nose. "People from Cleveland I mean. We need to get the tourism problem handled."
"Roger, milady!" Gonzago did not know what "roger" meant but Shannon made the mistake of saying it once or twice and he picked it up. He sped off and Shannon wondered if he even knew the first thing to do to fulfill her demand. Well—he sometimes surprised her. And since Duke Meretryce finally lost his vigor and half-retired, Gonzago became more and more important among her circle.
Truth be told, though, the tourism issue was low on her priority list. In fact, having more Earth people explore Whitecrosse and become enamored with its unique sights and culture assisted her. The legal tourism—for instance, those high-placed people able to schmooze a valid permit from American or Canadian bureaus—she even monetized. (The illegal tourism, of course, could not be similarly turned into profit, and it was important to keep Sansaime and Olliebollen happy since they constituted a prong of Shannon's offensive. So if Gonzago could accomplish anything, that'd be stellar.) The legal visitors usually had money to splash around and didn't question doing so for such an exclusive experience; Shannon met with them personally, gave them tours of Whitecrosse Castle and its underground vault, provided curated firsthand accounts of the misadventures that occurred within. The payments not only helped provide Whitecrosse with funding necessary to get itself off the ground in the modern economic world but also connected Shannon personally with important and influential figures. She'd so far met politicians, celebrities, scientists, professors, and religious leaders. Some had even made substantial personal donations to Whitecrosse's primary political effort, the effort that consumed the majority of Shannon's time and energy: Sovereignty.
Whitecrosse and California were placed smack in the center of Lake Erie, straddling the American-Canadian border, which instantly caused complications. Obviously, neither nation was willing to simply cede territory that belonged to them, and both nations saw great potential for profit in the magical beings and objects to be found in their new "islands." Under ordinary circumstances Shannon would have zero legal basis for demanding sovereignty, but recovery from the 2017 Devil Attacks slowed initial American/Canadian response, and then the American president tweeted that all of Whitecrosse and California should belong to the United States, not only the parts on the United States side of the border, which people at first took for a joke until the president started making similar statements in his political rallies and televised speeches. (It reminded Shannon of Dalt. He'd talked about resource extraction in Whitecrosse for America's benefit, hadn't he?) The Canadians quickly appealed to the United Nations and international law. The American president refused to back down, but also refused to send in the military and actually do anything to back up his claims, which resulted in a bizarre quagmire of ambiguity that gave Shannon an opening.
It was now 2018. Soon, the United States midterm elections would occur. (There had been martial law in the period shortly after the attacks, but a whole year later no acceptable reason remained to suspend elections.) The attacks themselves had caused the death of a non-insignificant number of sitting members of Congress, leading to a larger-than-normal number of vacant seats to fill; on top of that, the Earth-shattering events of the attacks themselves promised a major political realignment. Shannon sought to take advantage.
Political contacts. Aggressive lobbying. Public relations. Her headquarters here in the throne room managed it all. She'd electrified part of the castle and set up broadcast equipment; she spoke to judges, senators, donors every day. She even received financial and political assistance from the Canadian prime minister, who understood that no strongly-worded UN letter would ever deter America from doing what it wanted and preferred an independent Whitecrosse/California (which might then be exploited via diplomacy or debt traps) to an American-controlled one.
Best of all, Shannon had Mayfair playing to millions of Americans every day. Though her sermons bent religious, she did on occasion speak of her homeland. To the people of the world, Mayfair was a hero—just like Shannon herself, and especially Jay. They believed in her, they loved her, and their love was slowly extending to her strange country, at least according to the latest polling. Shouldn't Whitecrosse be free? This land with such a unique culture and ecology. Was it not righteous and ethical for it to be allowed to govern itself, rather than be gobbled up and assimilated? Should not its spectacular fauna—faeries and elves—be preserved, rather than see their homes pillaged by American logging companies?
Leading up to the election, a large number of politicians espousing pro-sovereignty policy positions saw favorable polling. Shannon had a one-time chance to enact immediate political change and ensure a future for Whitecrosse—as well as balloon her own profile on the national stage. Since Mayfair refused to return home to be coronated queen, many people of Whitecrosse asked Shannon to take up the mantle; but Shannon refused, characterizing her efforts on Whitecrosse's behalf as pro bono volunteering. After all, she was 25 years old now. If she maintained present levels of popularity and name recognition, if she fostered her connections and established ties to prominent personages, in a mere decade she would be perfectly positioned for a presidential run.
For now, though, she was swamped.
"Trudeau wants a video conference in thirty minutes," one attendant yelled.
"The latest polls are in for Florida," said another.
"We have a recording of Princess Mayfair's latest sermon," said a third. "She mentioned your brother. I can put it on the screen."
They were all native Whitecrossians, people she recruited from DeWint's academy, trained over the course of a year in modern technology. They picked up faster than Shannon expected, and in the neat modern suits she bought for them they appeared indistinguishable from her former coworkers at the IRS.
"Get the poll results on my desk, save the sermon for later, tell the Canadians I'll be there," Shannon said.
"Your brother's leaving for Mars today," said the third assistant. "Are you sure you don't want to call him?"
Shannon lacked a ready response. He was leaving already? Given her focus on other matters, she hadn't followed the whole Mars mission closely. Somehow she expected it to take them much more than a year to put it together, but she supposed the potential profit of a first claim to terraformed Mars—and the fear of losing it to some other country or business—accelerated matters.
Then the logical processing of it dispersed and she realized: He was going away.
The frenetic speed of all her assistants around her slowed down. Since the end of Pandaemonium, when she caught him after he gave up the Divinity, she hadn't really spoken to him. He'd gone his way and she'd gone hers; it only made sense. He denied her requests to contribute to her lobbying campaign, and that was the extent of their communication over the past year.
Still...
"New crisis," said Tricia of Mordac blandly. She flitted down from the ceiling, holding a phone and flicking through it with idle disinterest. "The King of California just got into another Twitter fight with the president."
Shannon groaned. Viviendre's idiot brother had proven himself a social media showman par excellence. It was not helping her cause.
"Can you handle it? Put out a statement? You're good at that Tricia."
Tricia gave her a look. She was not on the best terms with Shannon after the events at Pandaemonium. After Mallory. But she believed in the cause of Whitecrosse's sovereignty, she knew Mallory would have fought for that (literally fought), and so she grinned and got to tapping.
"Thank you," Shannon said. Sincerely. She needed them all; she couldn't possibly do everything herself.
Indeed, in a moment like this, when her assistants no longer demanded anything of her, when the sound around the table devolved into quiet, the full weight of it struck her. Her head bowed; her knees felt weak.
Mallory. Mother. Shannon was gonna be strong. Just like you asked. Aren't you proud? You have to be proud now. Don't you? Look at her. She'll be president one day.
No voice returned her query. Only a snort from Tricia, presumably in response to whatever ridiculous insult the King of California lobbed at the president ("Thin-blooded simpleton! Degenerate scion of goatfuckers!").
Very well. Shannon would wear the armor for them, whether they saw or not. No—she would wear the armor for herself.
Maybe she would call Jay, she thought.
The doors to the throne room burst open. Gonzago appeared, wide-eyed and sputtering. "Lady Shannon! Lady Shannon! It's—It's—"
"Quit stammering already and tell me." Shannon braced for some horseshit.
"It's Duke Malleus. He's arrived."
Duke... Malleus. The third duke, after Meretryce and Mordac, the one they'd been promising would show for almost a year now, a man constantly en route to Whitecrosse Castle. Shannon had forgotten about him. Assumed he never existed. Now he was here? How?
Gonzago stepped aside as a figure strode through the open doors. A tall young man, physically built but dressed in ornate and elegant fashions, followed by a train of attendants and soldiers. He carried a military helmet under his arm.
"Apologies for my tardiness," Duke Malleus said in a cordial British accent. "You wouldn't believe the condition of the roads nowadays. Anyway, you must be this Shannon Waringcrane I've heard so much about—all good things, mind you. I understand you need some help. Well! Consider my services offered."
—
Lucifer sat upon a brilliant throne. They called her Lucifer now. It was convenient to be called Lucifer so she didn't correct them, but old habits died hard and she struggled to think of herself as anything other than what she'd been most her life: Perfidia Bal Berith.
When Jay ceded Divinity to her, she acted fast. "Fast" in terms of milliseconds, which she could then perceive as hours each. Since she knew what she wanted to change about the world beforehand, she was able to expend most of the Divinity before it had a chance to consume her. Changes to Earth, Mars, certain planets outside the solar system. Places for humanity to go, step-by-step. And the means to go there. In only a year humans had built a spaceship that could travel to Mars, an expediency she enabled. It would take them longer to press on and expand their reach to other galaxies, but Mars ought to tide them over until then. Maybe they would even surprise her.
By the end of it, her whole body burning, she staggered to the ground and felt so much pain she thought she might die anyway. But she survived. The Divinity was extinguished before it had a chance to consume her. It had, however, marked her.
Her body exuded a light now. Hence why the devils that remained, corralled by her hand back into Hell, looked upon her and immediately thought of him: their former master, Lucifer, light-bringer.
The mark of Divinity enhanced her in other ways. She possessed power now. Physical power. Longevity even beyond the long years of a devil. An immortal—or close enough to one. With all Seven Princes dead, no devil matched her strength. Kedeshah, who herself stood a tier above most devils, was a mere gnat in comparison.
That gnat now buzzed. "And then those guys did that thing, and they went and did that, and now that other thing's going on." She swayed back and forth on the mirrored tile floor of Pandaemonium's new uppermost story, her body language a plain effusion of impatience, boredom, even frustration. "Aha! I knew it. You're not even listening to me, Fidi—er, Luci. I've been rambling about nothing for the past minute!"
Kedeshah, restored of the effects of her mother's milk and now Lucifer's second-in-command, often came to give reports on the devils below: Their general mood, whether they chafed against this or that commandment (they always did), which would-be usurpers they might rally around, et cetera. The reports were vestigial. Lucifer from this vantage looked down and saw all within her dominion, knew exactly what she wanted to know with only a thought. It was Kedeshah who insisted on giving the reports. Lucifer suspected why. It could be seen in the pouty insouciance of her body language, her fidgets and so forth. The Seven Princes may not remain, but Lust never left Kedeshah fully.
Lucifer opened a palm and beckoned Kedeshah closer. She danced forward and knelt so that Lucifer might stroke her head and neck like a cat, reward enough to keep her content. But Lucifer's mind traveled elsewhere.
Everything was going so—perfectly. Though a change in leadership after millennia might have easily led to widespread upheaval, the devils all recognized her as Lucifer. They hadn't even recognized Satan as Lucifer, until he gained Divinity; he had long since become corrupted, speaking with that snake-like lisp inflicted by God as recompense for the temptation of Eve. He no longer brought light, he was merely man's adversary, and him and all the other Princes slowly stultified into lesser and lesser forms of themselves, devoid of majesty, merely slaves to their Aspects. Hell itself corrupted, agglomerations of material and mischief, pettiness and degeneracy in equal measure.
Now all was different. Under Lucifer, the devils saw within themselves a new sense of purpose. They had tasted dominion over humanity and wished it reclaimed. They were willing to work now, seriously work, and using Kedeshah to maintain their ensorcellment Lucifer gave them much work to do.
They strived.
Already they were returning to Earth's surface surreptitiously, with discipline and organization set by her designs. They returned to their offices, to forge deals, to sign contracts (the former Lucifer's prohibition lifted), to grant wishes, to claim the human substance that granted them power. As when they first Fell, they started from zero. But the promise now was greater. Humanity might spread past this planet, past its raw physical limits, propagate in greater numbers, and thus in greater numbers devilry might profit off them. It would take thousands of years, maybe tens of thousands, but the hard work Perfidia Bal Berith expended to build this new reality would eventually yield an even greater mass of Godly power.
And Lucifer was there to lead them to those heights, just as the original Lucifer promised to his comrades when they first landed in this lake of fire, defeated and disconsolate.
It was that last part that made this new Lucifer ponder. The thought nagged:
Had this been his plan from the beginning?
When Perfidia claimed Divinity, she briefly traveled to that outer layer of existence. She saw the outcome of the old Lucifer's war against the angels, and Jay's decision to destroy the old Lucifer. Their souls, their energies were flying up to a still-greater level, being reabsorbed into the godhead.
Which meant the Divinity had not been enough to take them to the true highest plane of existence, the true location of Heaven. It had been powerful—but not powerful enough to usurp God.
Could Satan have known that all along? As he schemed and plotted, could he have seen the slow tapering of humanity's population as they reached their limits, could he have calculated that even the collected fruit of their millennia-spanning harvest was not enough to push rebellion to the furthest extremity? Did he thus design a way to increase the limits, to force humanity to surpass itself, and expended what he earned to gamble on future gains?
He'd had the Divinity, though. Why not simply spend it himself to push humanity higher? Why destroy himself in the process, jump through convoluted hoops to get Jay and Perfidia to the top of Pandaemonium at the exact perfect moment? That was what didn't make sense. That was what this new Lucifer struggled to understand. What was the purpose?
She thought of the souls of devils and angels flying up to that final layer. Then, her eyes widening, her fingers stopping still as they stroked Kedeshah's hair, she realized.
God. God was the final piece of the puzzle.
Lucifer needed to do something God did not approve, did not sanction. Something God would assuredly punish. A price had to be paid for rebellion. Lucifer offered the payment. No—he offered seven payments.
Seven Princes, seven payments. That was the price paid to change the world.
Perfidia Bal Berith had never been part of the rebellion. She'd been an unwitting pawn who bravely turned against him. Her mission was not to usurp God but to repair the world. She was innocent of Lucifer's crimes. It had been essential she remained innocent. Remained ignorant. She and Jay climbed that tower truly believing they were fighting against Lucifer. Fighting to undo everything he wrought. Their innocence spared them God's wrath; at the same time, seven offerings were given unto him to mollify his fury.
And now, she thought with a shiver that caused Kedeshah to tilt her head questioningly, here was Hell led once more Lucifer, by a scion of himself split off, by the left hand that knew not what the right did, and this new Lucifer would lead devilry to heights the old Lucifer could not have reached on his own...
"Something wrong, Luci?" Kedeshah asked.
For a moment, it was wrong—all wrong—and her skin felt clammy, the first such feeling since the mark of Divinity burned her. Then she shook it. Her lips curled into a smile. "Ha," she said. "No, nothing's wrong."
Oh, Satan. You fool. You Prideful fool. That was always your flaw, wasn't it? You saw yourself in everything. You even saw yourself in Perfidia Bal Berith. Is that what allowed you to trick yourself into believing in this plan? That she would become you, that the new Lucifer would merely be an extension of the old? Clown. Absolute clown. Perfidia Bal Berith was not you, even if you created her. Just as Adam had not been God. She would never be you, and what she accomplished was her accomplishment, not yours, and that was the truth because you no longer existed to exert your will otherwise.
You were nothing now. Nothing. A completely negated presence. She still lived, and only the living can strive for more.
And maybe... Maybe Satan knew that all along.
Maybe Satan had wanted to die.
They had all been corrupted. They had all become baser than before. Maybe he couldn't bear thinking of the thing he had once been, the thing that once belonged to him. He was Pride incarnate, after all. How could he stand above everyone if he couldn't even stand above his own shadow? It started with the Fall, then the curse God put on him, then the slow erosion of time. Eventually, he couldn't take it anymore. Eventually, he needed to end his existence. Being Satan, he couldn't simply die. He needed his death to be grandiose, memorable, magnificent, and he needed to die with that small excuse in his head that he was leaving behind some part of himself to take up his mantle and return his name to greatness.
For a moment, before Jay destroyed him, he must have been content. He must have thought of Perfidia Bal Berith and believed in his greatness once more.
But that was just a moment; and once it ended, he ended too, and so ended his hold on her. On everything.
Lucifer settled back on her throne. The tension of the unknown dispersed. She even laughed. This was her show now. She would run it her way.
"Oh yeah," Kedeshah said. "That human, Jay Waringcrane, is leaving for Mars..."
"Good," Lucifer said. "He'll find that world no picnic. There's creatures there to challenge even him."
"Anyway, you're being super boring as usual, so I'm leaving." Kedeshah rose quickly and bounced back on the heel of a single foot, hands held behind her back, but Lucifer knew she'd craved even the slight touch she received as reward.
After Kedeshah bowed semi-ironically and left, Lucifer remained alone in the quiet, mirrored room. Her thoughts drifted back to the old Lucifer's plot, and she wondered whether he'd managed to deceive God with it after all. Maybe God wanted the world changed, or maybe he'd been so expended due to the proliferation of humanity that he'd truly not seen Satan's scheme coming. Maybe he wanted to renew himself with the souls that had all flown up to him in those final moments...
Lucifer decided it wasn't worth worrying about. She reached into her coat—now repaired and imbued with true grandeur, rather than the shabby thing Ubik once wore—and retrieved a few old pieces of parchment. Some of the Whitecrosse papers. A hobby in her spare time. She'd never truly fleshed out that place, had she? But within these lofty plans for the future and the burden of whipping devilkind into shape, she found it relaxing to work on something far less complex. What would she add to the world this time? Which person would she transform into a living, breathing character? Anyone or anything; endless possibility.
—
Jay Waringcrane was about to become an astronaut when some tech hand ran up holding a phone. He picked it up and said, "Hello."
The voice on the other end of the line crackled. Poor quality of connection. But when they said, "Hey," he knew who it was.
"Shannon."
A pause. He stood there, staring out the window at the spaceship ready to lift off. The other members of his crew—four actual astronauts, and the deer woman Demny, who followed Jay now without speaking much, with her severe eyes always watching—were gathered in this room, ready for a few final checks before they were cleared to enter the ship. (At which point even more final checks would occur. And then more checks.)
Shannon had attempted to contact him a few times already since Pandaemonium. Usually to ask him to petition such-and-such on behalf of Whitecrosse's sovereignty. He wasn't interested in the politics, though.
"So you're leaving today," Shannon said.
"That's right," said Jay.
Another pause. Jay wondered why Shannon bothered to call. Some sense of formality? It was clearly awkward for them to talk. They'd never really done it before—other than to argue.
"Don't—don't die now." Shannon spoke with sudden fluidity. "You're too important to the world to die. I don't have any idea why they're letting you fly all the way to Mars. It's ridiculous if you ask me. You're not an astronaut. Those people train for years to go into space."
"I completed their training too." That was all he bothered to say. The mark of Divinity remained with him even after Divinity left, and his body far exceeded the level of a normal human's. Training had been a formality for him, and it was clear to everyone he had a much higher chance of survival on the unknown and unexplored surface of Mars. He'd also be able to keep the other crew members safe. In essence, he was uniquely equipped for such a dangerous expedition. They'd allowed Demny to join for a similar reason, although the strange shape of her body caused the engineers untold problems.
"Bah. I know. I know. I just have such a hard time imagining you as an astronaut. It's ridiculous."
"We've both done more ridiculous things already."
"That's true."
Another pause.
"I think," Shannon said finally, slowly, pausing again in the middle, "I think Mother would be proud of you."
Jay said nothing at first. Her words crept into him even more slowly than she spoke them. Then, though they were speaking over the phone and she couldn't see him, he nodded his head.
"Thanks. I think—I think she'd be proud of you, too."
A pause. "Good luck."
"Good luck to you too," Jay said, "with all your politics."
"Well! I won't keep you distracted when you surely have all manner of important details to attend to. Goodbye, Jay."
"Goodbye, Shannon."
The call ended.
From across the room Demny watched him. "Are you ready now," she asked.
"Yes," he said. "I'm ready."
He wasn't going to stop. Always, he would continue. Stopping was the end. As long as there was something for him to reach for, then he could be content in the journey. For Lalum and Viviendre and all the weight held within Demny's eyes.
Later, when the spaceship lifted off, and tore through space, he looked out the window and saw Earth as a perfect circle before him. The whole world beneath his gaze, with all its people alive or dead. Weird, he thought. It looked so small.
THE END