Mysterium

The past gives birth to the present.

According to the laws of thermodynamics, nothing dies; only form changes. We reenact our evolution in the womb. As a species, our history is engraved in every cell.

But evolution can only operate under the dicta of natural law—the evolution of the universe as much as the evolution of life. In the first nanosecond of the primordial singularity, everything that now exists became an implication needing only time to achieve embodiment. The early universe contained human consciousness the way an acorn contains an oak.

The Gnostics speak of the Protennoia: Mind as the original substance of the world; a Protennoia derived from an Uncreated God, aggenetos (un-generated) and androgynous.

Humanity as a fractal subset of Mind in an imperfect Pleroma. Our divine spark, our apospasma theion, an ember of the Big Bang. Consciousness = the quantum mechanics of the archaic universe erupting into cold matter through the medium of humanity.

I think we are the lever by which something unspeakably ancient moves the world.

—from the secret journal of Alan Stem

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Coming back to the capital, even for a week, was a restorative for Symeon Demarch. No matter what happened here—and he expected nothing good from his scheduled meeting with Bisonette —he would have time to draw at least a few unfettered breaths.

He rode a truck to Fort LeDuc, where a ponderous air transport waited on the military runway. The airplane had been outfitted with a padded wooden bench along its steel inner wall, an instant nuisance to Demarch’s spine, and the four smoky engines with their immense blades rattled the fuselage and deafened the passengers. The most reliable air transportation had gone to the western front months ago. But Demarch forgot his discomfort as soon as the vehicle lifted above a plain of cloud and wheeled away from the setting sun. He was going home.

He let his attention focus on the circular window opposite him and his thoughts drift away. Except when the plane banked into a turn there was only the sky to see, a winter blue turning to ink at the apex.

The electrical heating labored and Demarch turned up the collar of his veston.

It was altogether dark when the aircraft circled down to the capital. The city was invisible except for its lights, but Demarch’s spirits were buoyed by the sight. All that grid of electricity was familiar territory. Parts of it he knew by heart. He picked out the stone pavilions of the Bureau Centrality as the plane lost altitude, a few windows shining in the hierarchs’ buildings and watch lanterns burning in the courtyards. Then a landing field rose to meet the wheels.

He shuffled out of the aircraft with the other passengers, a few enlisted men who watched him guardedly as he crossed the tarmac to a waiting car. The Bureau had sent him a vehicle and driver. The driver spoke no English and his French was deeply accented. A Haitian, Demarch supposed. A number of Haitians had lately been imported to fill menial jobs emptied by conscription.

“Neige,” the driver said. “Bientot, je pense.” Snow soon. No doubt, Demarch told him, and let the conversation languish. He was happy with his own musing as the miles spooled past. There was not much traffic even in the narrow streets where the sacral brothels were. But it was late, and of course there was the gasoline rationing. One saw more horse-drawn vehicles these days than before the war. Dorothea had written him about a sugar shortage, too. Everything was rationed. But the fundamental nature of the countryside hadn’t changed, especially here beyond the city center. Telegraph poles lined the cobbled road, and the smell of burning sod was pungent in the cold air.