creative writing, fiction, short fiction, women

A Bridge For The Furies: Leviathan’s Church

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The idea that an organisation might form to advance the cause(read appetite) of Leviathan would not surprise anyone, least of all Cara. There was something to all intelligent life that pulled towards destruction, no matter how enlightened they might otherwise be.

It was an impulse that existed long before Leviathan, and if it were defeated, it would exist long after it.

Cara had dealt with every flavour of nihilism, in a variety of species. When she had spent a cycle on Feruba, she had found a species of intelligent plantlife who had spliced in herbicide producing glands into their matter and launched themselves into the city-forests. After wandering around a region once the size of Newfoundland, reduced to withered scrub, stood over the reeking bodies of plant-people curled up into the pugilistic position common to the victims of fire, she had debated whether she had much fight left in her.

The spirit of Leviathan was there at every book burning, every call for censorship from left or right of the political spectrum, it hid between the spaces in the speeches of politicians, preachers and activists. In terms of active advancement, there was a church.

One follower.

One high priest.

One woman.

She had, before her discovery and conversion, been a poet of the Gublai-7, a variation of humanity that had been far in advance of the version of Earth that Gloria, Olivia and Drea were recruited from. This was due to the lucky escape of Hypatia, the Alexandrian mathematician from an angry mob of Christian zealots in the 18th century and the resulting leap forward in mathematical development for civilisation. Gublai-7 was once part of a post-Singularity collective, sharing information at light speed, with an array of enhancements and modified organs that made her capable of great atrocities and inventions.

She had travelled out to the edge of her universe, modified for deep space travel, lungs and stomach packed with a nutrient rich clay that released oxygen and nutrition over glacial periods, solar-collecting wings that extended around her, sailing through the vacuum, in constant dialogue with the rest of her collective. Her senses were sucking up information, collecting and translating solar signals, radio frequencies, the white noise of space collected and made sense of with the fervour of a zealot.

When she saw the increasing amount of absences in this information, the husks of civilisations, her curiosity drew her deeper and further into the path of the Leviathan. She lost communication with her collective as she passed beyond the limits of her parallel universe and came face to face with the Leviathan.

It was love at first sight, if love were truly the destructive, withering entropic force that it sometimes felt like. It decided not to drain her of knowledge, and made an offer she could not refuse.

She returned as its herald, led it to her universe where it fed with a terrible and fervent glory upon the rest of her collective and the other brilliant, shining points of light in the universe that she had renounced in favour of the only entity she considered worshipping.

This was the flaw in Cara’s plan. She knew that terrible gods and intelligences drew worshippers like shit drew flies, but Leviathan was on a scale that challenged her enough to miss the details.

That Leviathan had a herald.

That Iria was sat in the same bar, watching Cara with the three women, transmitting every word of their conversation through a subspace frequency which Cara mistook for the beginnings of a tension headache, through to the Leviathan.

 

 

 

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