“He’s happy,” I translated. “He says … He says proof that a God’s universe survives His death means … means…”—tears leaked from me even as I struggled to paraphrase—“it means He doesn’t have to worry anymore that, if all human beings are Gods like Him, then each death might destroy an entire universe. It reduces the possible tragedy of human history by a factor of infinity per human being that has ever died.”
Each in that room—MASON, Martin, Faust, Madame, the Utopian doctors who have studied Him since their surrender—believes in Jehovah’s divinity to some different degree, some not at all, some partly, some completely, but whatever their beliefs they all believe that He believes it. So all paused now to consider how this new revelation would affect Him, and through Him everyone. Martin wept a few tears, delight at seeing so dear a Master relieved of that cruel fear which had gnawed at Him as viciously as the eagle at Prometheus. I sobbed outright.
The Utopian nodded pensively. “How do they feel physically?”
Jehovah answered, metaphysics pouring around me like a waterfall which cleanses soul instead of flesh. “He says He finally understands why He had to be born in a physical body to communicate,” I interpreted. “He … He accepts it now. He says it was hard making contact, but He’s glad This Universe’s God gave Him a life here. They were both lonely.” Lonely … glad … I do not dare call it translation, this blasphemy, inadequate, unclean; I may as well be a sighted mole describing to my blind kin the wonders of Luna City. ‘Lonely’ was nothing to the phrase which captured all the longing and eternity of Dante’s Hell, and ‘glad’ not a thousandth part of the joy felt by this Sentience which had endured so long with nothing but toys and worms for company, but now heard at last the longed-for whisper through the dark, “I’m here.”
“He says,” I continued, “that when He died He left, and existed only in His universe for a few moments, but He still remembered this one. He understands now that in His universe He’s always had the memories of His life in this one as Jehovah Mason, but without being born and experiencing time He couldn’t understand before how to sort those memories linearly, they were just thoughts and opinions to Him, not a continuity. Now that He’s had a chance to pass in and out of this universe and time again, He recognizes the memories for what they are. He’s always had them … well, there is no ‘always’ without time, but they’re part of Him, His Personality, His Self. He says those memories helped form the judgments He used in making His Own Universe. He says living here is what taught Him how to make it different there, better, richer. He used to think it was cruel making Him live here, but He sees now it was the only way This Universe’s God could find to reach out and share the example of His Creation, so Jehovah could respond and grow. The beginning of their Great Conversation. He says … He…” I groped for words to do His feelings justice, but how could I? Imagine yourself a child born blind and deaf, who has spent all your life in pain, but you realize now that that pain, that burn, that stab in the dark that has never let up, was the only means a desperate kinsman could find to prove that you are not alone. I don’t understand why it must be so hard for Gods to reach Each Other. Perhaps because Each is omnipotent within the perimeter of Its Own Mind, and reaching Another requires conceiving something outside One’s Self, not easy when there are no senses, no external world, no hands driven by instinct to grope and reach out, and no ‘out.’ Whatever it takes for Utopia to make First Contact across the sea of stars, a thousand years’ research, a thousand years frozen in flight, a thousand thousand lives, it will still be an expansion of the infant’s first grope toward what lies beyond its reach; this was harder. “He says He’ll return the favor if He can.”
The Emperor did not have time for metaphysics. “What will you do now, Fili?”
This was, for once, easy. “He doesn’t know. While He was in His universe He remembered His whole life, before and after His first death, but here He remembers only the past.”
His father frowned. “I meant, what do you intend to do?”
“He says He will accept the powers offered Him,” I answered, “and face His enemy. He says Sniper must…” I choked. “Sniper must die.”
You will not be surprised, reader, to find His mother beaming with delight to hear her Masterpiece’s defect—His fear of killing—finally corrected. Are you surprised to learn that His Imperial father smiled too? You should not be. He who wears that black sleeve, he who limps still from the cruel testing enforced by his predecessor, knows that certain strengths are necessary in a ruler.
I continued my translation: “As leader of O.S., Sniper will never stop, or compromise. It must … it must die.” I stumbled here because I lied, though a lie is hardly a greater sin than the mockery of translation; He did not say in the abstract Sniper must die, he commanded that I, Mycroft Canner, must track it down and kill it. “Tully Mardi must … publicly submit … but not be killed, they would make too powerful a symbol dead. The truth, about Casimir Perry, Jehovah’s succession, Madame, Bridger, all of it must be revealed to the public, so people may make up their own minds which side to fight on in the…”
I froze, but the others knew what came next, for, of all Jehovah’s mingled tongues, English has the clearest, most concise word for ‘War.’
“No!” My voice cracked. “?ναξ, there doesn’t have to be a war now. You’ll stop it! We have Bridger. You’ll stop it, You and Bridger together, and You’ll make a new—”
He spoke again, and sobs wracked me until I was glad of the Cannergel that held me down.
“What is it, Mycroft? Mycroft?”
I would not translate, not even for Caesar, but for you I shall, my precious, distant reader. I was wrong. That’s how He began it: Mycroft, you are wrong. He sensed at once conviction in me, as out of place as a gun in Helo?se’s hand, or a healing salve in Dominic’s. I had believed that Providence sent Bridger and Jehovah to this Earth at the same moment, so they might meet, and Jehovah receive at last His greeting from This Universe’s God. This had proved true, but, fool that I was, I had assumed that one kindness dropped by Providence meant more would come. Yes, Bridger and Jehovah were placed on this Earth to meet each other, but meet they had. First Contact was done. For all we knew, Sniper would shoot Jehovah dead before Bridger could return, or it would spirit Bridger away to use his gifts for Sniper’s side and wreck Jehovah’s empire. Nothing was certain. Nothing under Providence is ever certain until an agent goes and tries and makes it so.
“Release me.”
All turned, startled by the speed with which my grief gave way to the cold demand.
Papa smiled. “Not a chance.”
“I must find Bridger.”
He shook his head. “You need to recover from surgery first.”
I made a grab for Papa’s wrist, but the straps held me too tight. “Bridger is everything: immortality, resurrection, cure, the weapon to protect the world, the weapon to destroy it, anything we can conceive. No one knows what this war will be like except that it will be the worst in history. Nothing but Bridger can guarantee that the human race will even survive. I’m the only one here who knows how to find them. Sniper knows about Bridger too; Sniper will be after them. I must bring them here, now, safe. Nothing in history has ever been so important.”
Saladin moved as I spoke. Only I could see him, accustomed as I was to tracing the ripple-shadow which betrayed the Griffincloth. The Cannergel that held me was firm as adamant—but the same genius that had crafted it had filled Apollo’s coat with blades to slice through adamant like tissue. We didn’t need them. The Commissioner General and MASON together, on their authority as human beings more than as my custodians under the law, released me.
“Come back safe.”
Saladin helped me rise. “Should I c—”
I winded him with a blow before he could complete the offer. “Stay here,” I urged, apologizing with a kiss. “The world needs ?ναξ Jehovah right now, and Jehovah needs a translator.”
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST