Title: The Hierophant’s Daughter
Author: MF Sullivan
Series: The Disgraced Martyr Trilogy #1
Genre: Science Fiction, Speculative Fiction, LGBT, Fantasy
Release Date: May 19, 2019
Publisher: Painted Blind Publishing
Cover Design: Nuno Moreira
Dive into the first volume of a bleak cyberpunk tahgmahryou can't afford to miss. What would you sacrifice to survive?
By 4042 CE, the Hierophant and his Church have risen to political dominance with his cannibalistic army of genetically modified humans: martyrs. In an era when mankind's intergenerational cold wars against their long-lived predators seem close to running hot, the Holy Family is poised on the verge of complete planetary control. It will take a miracle to save humanity from extinction.
It will also take a miracle to resurrect the wife of 331-year-old General Dominia di Mephitoli, who defects during martyr year 1997 AL in search of Lazarus, the one man rumored to bring life to the dead. With the Hierophant's Project Black Sun looming over her head, she has little choice but to believe this Lazarus is really all her new friends say he is--assuming he exists at all--and that these companions of hers are really able to help her. From the foulmouthed Japanese prostitute with a few secrets of her own to the outright sapient dog who seems to judge every move, they don't inspire a lot of confidence, but the General has to take the help she can get.
After all, Dominia is no ordinary martyr. She is THE HIEROPHANT'S DAUGHTER, and her Father won't let her switch sides without a fight. Not when she still has so much to learn.
The dystopic first entry of an epic cyberpunk trilogy, THE HIEROPHANT’S DAUGHTER is a horror/sci-fi adventure sure to delight and inspire adult readers of all stripes.
The Flight of the Governess
The Disgraced Governess of the United Front was blind in her right eye. Was that blood in the left, or was it damaged, too? The crash ringing in her ears kept her from thinking straight. Of course her left eye still worked: it worked well enough to prevent her from careening into the trees through which she plunged. Yet, for the tinted flecks of reality sometimes twinkling between crimson streaks, she could only imagine her total blindness with existential horror. Would the protein heal the damage? How severely was her left eye wounded? What about the one she knew to be blind—was it salvageable? Ichigawa could check, if she ever made it to the shore.
She couldn’t afford to think that way. It was a matter of “when,” not of “if.” She would never succumb. Neither could car accident, nor baying hounds, nor the Hierophant himself keep her from her goal. She had fourteen miles to the ship that would whisk her across the Pacific and deliver her to the relative safety of the Risen Sun. Then the Lazarene ceremony would be less than a week away. Cassandra’s diamond beat against her heart to pump it into double time, and with each double beat, she thought of her wife (smiling, laughing, weeping when she thought herself alone) and ran faster. A lucky thing the Governess wasn’t human! Though, had she remained human, she’d have died three centuries ago in some ghetto if she’d lived past twenty without becoming supper. Might have been the easier fate, or so she lamented each time her mind replayed the crash of the passenger-laden tanque at fifth gear against the side of their small car. How much she might have avoided!
Of course—then she never would have known Cassandra. That made all this a reasonable trade. Cold rain softened the black earth to the greedy consistency of clay, but her body served where her eyes failed. The darkness was normally no trouble, but now she squinted while she ran and, under sway of a dangerous adrenaline high, was side-swiped by more than one twisting branch. The old road that was her immediate goal, Highway 128, would lead her to the coast of her favorite Jurisdiction, but she now had to rediscover that golden path after the crash’s diversion. In an effort to evade her pursuers, she had torn into a pear orchard without thought of their canine companions. Not that the soldiers of the Americas kept companions like Europa’s nobles. These dogs were tools. Well-honed, organic death machines with a cultivated taste for living flesh, whether martyr or human. The dogs understood something that most had forgotten: the difference between the two was untenable. Martyrs could tell themselves they were superior for an eternity, but it wouldn’t change the fact that the so-called master race and the humans they consumed were the same species.
That was not why Cassandra had died, but it hadn’t contributed to their marital bliss. And now, knowing what she did of the Hierophant’s intentions—thinking, always, what Cassandra would have said—the Governess pretended she was driven by that ghost, and not by her own hopelessness. Without the self-delusion, she was a victim to a great many ugly thoughts, foremost among them being: Was the fear of life after her wife’s death worth such disgrace? A death sentence? Few appreciated what little difference there was between human and martyr, and fewer cared, because caring was fatal. But she was a part of the Holy Family. Shouldn’t that have been all that mattered? Stunning how, after three centuries, she deserved to be treated no better than a human. Then again, there was nothing quite like resignation from one’s post to fall in her Father’s estimate. Partly, he was upset by her poor timing—she did stand him up at some stupid press event, but only because she hoped it would keep everybody occupied while she got away. In that moment, she couldn’t even remember what it was. Dedicating a bridge? Probably. Her poor head, what did the nature of the event matter when she was close to death?
That lapse in social graces was not the reason for this hunt. He understood that more lay behind her resignation than a keening for country life. Even before he called her while she and the others took the tanque to the coast, he must have known. Just like he must have known the crash was seconds from happening while he chatted away, and that the humans in her company, already nervous to be within a foot of the fleeing Governess, were doomed.
Of the many people remaining on Earth, those lumped into the group of “human” were at constant risk of death, mutilation, or—far worse—unwilling martyrdom. This meant those humans lucky enough to avoid city-living segregation went to great lengths to keep their private properties secure. Not only houses but stables. The Disgraced Governess found this to be true of the stables into which she might have stumbled and electrocuted herself were it not for the bug zaps of rain against the threshold’s surface. Her mind made an instinctive turn toward prayer for the friendliness of the humans in the nearby farmhouse—an operation she was quick to abort. In those seconds (minutes?) since the crash, she’d succeeded in reconstructing the tinted windows of the tanque and a glimpse of silver ram’s horns: the Lamb lurked close enough to hear her like she spoke into his ear. It was too much to ask that he be on her side tonight.
Granted, the dogs of the Lamb were far closer, and far more decisive about where their loyalties stood. One hound sank its teeth into her ankle, and she, crying out, kicked the beast into its closest partner with a crunch. Slower dogs snarled outrage in the distance while the Disgraced Governess ran to the farmhouse caught in her left periphery. The prudent owners, to her frustration, shuttered their windows at night. Nevertheless, she smashed her fist against the one part of the house that protruded: the doorbell required by the Hierophant’s “fair play” dictatum allowing the use of electronic barriers. As the humans inside stumbled out of bed in response to her buzzing, the Disgraced Governess unholstered her antique revolver and unloaded two rounds into the recovered canines before they were upon her. The discharge wasn’t a tip-off she wanted to give to the Lamb and her other pursuers, but it hastened the response of the sleeping farmers as the intercom crackled to life.
“Who is it?” A woman’s voice, quivering with an edge of panic.
“My name is Dominia di Mephitoli: I’m the former Governess of the United Front, and I need to borrow a horse. Please. Don’t let me in. Just drop the threshold on your stables.”
“The Governess? I’m sorry, I don’t understand. The Dominia di Mephitoli, really? The martyr?”
“Yes, yes, please. I need a horse now.” Another dog careened around the corner and leapt over the bodies of his comrades with such grace that she wasted her third round in the corpses. Two more put it down as she shouted into the receiver. “I can’t transfer you any credits because they’ve frozen my Halcyon account, but I’ll leave you twenty pieces of silver if you drop the threshold and loan me a horse. You can reclaim it at the docks off Bay Street, in the township of Sienna. Please! He’ll kill me.”
“And he’ll be sure to kill us for helping you.”
“Tell him I threatened you. Tell him I tricked you! Anything. Just help me get away!”
“He’ll never believe what we say. He’ll kill me, my husband, our children. We can’t.”
“Oh, please. An act of mercy for a dying woman. Please, help me leave. I can give you the name of a man in San Valentino who can shelter you and give you passage abroad.”
“There’s no time to go so far south. Not as long as it takes to get across the city.”
It had been ten seconds since she’d heard the last dog. That worried her. With her revolver at the ready, she scanned the area for something more than the quivering roulette blotches swelling in her right eye. Nothing but the dead animals. “He’ll kill you either way. For talking to me, and not keeping me occupied until his arrival. For knowing that there’s disarray in his perfect land. He’ll find a reason, even if it only makes sense to him.”
The steady beat of rain pattered out a passive answer. On the verge of giving up, Dominia stepped back to ready herself for a fight—and the house’s threshold dropped with an electric pop. The absent mauve shimmer left the façade bare. How rare to see a country place without its barrier! A strange thing. Stranger for the front door to open; she’d only expected them to do away with the threshold on the stables.
But, rather than the housewife she’d anticipated, there stood the Hierophant. Several bleak notions clicked into place.
One immaculate gray brow arched. “Now, Dominia, that’s hardly fair. Knowledge of your disgrace isn’t why I’ll kill them. The whole world will know of it tomorrow morning. You embarrassed me by sending your resignation, rather than making the appearance I asked of you, so it is only fair I embarrass you by rejecting your resignation and firing you publicly. No, my dear. I will kill these fine people to upset you. In fact, Mr. McLintock is already dead in the attic. A mite too brave. Of course”—he winked, and whispered in conspiracy—“don’t tell them that.”
“How did you know I’d come here?”
“Such an odd spurt of rain tonight. Of all your Jurisdictions, this one is usually so dry this time of year! Won’t you come in for tea? Mrs. McLintock brews a fine pot. But put that gun away. You’re humiliating yourself. And me.”
The Disgraced Governess of the United Front was blind in her right eye. Was that blood in the left, or was it damaged, too? The crash ringing in her ears kept her from thinking straight. Of course her left eye still worked: it worked well enough to prevent her from careening into the trees through which she plunged. Yet, for the tinted flecks of reality sometimes twinkling between crimson streaks, she could only imagine her total blindness with existential horror. Would the protein heal the damage? How severely was her left eye wounded? What about the one she knew to be blind—was it salvageable? Ichigawa could check, if she ever made it to the shore.
She couldn’t afford to think that way. It was a matter of “when,” not of “if.” She would never succumb. Neither could car accident, nor baying hounds, nor the Hierophant himself keep her from her goal. She had fourteen miles to the ship that would whisk her across the Pacific and deliver her to the relative safety of the Risen Sun. Then the Lazarene ceremony would be less than a week away. Cassandra’s diamond beat against her heart to pump it into double time, and with each double beat, she thought of her wife (smiling, laughing, weeping when she thought herself alone) and ran faster. A lucky thing the Governess wasn’t human! Though, had she remained human, she’d have died three centuries ago in some ghetto if she’d lived past twenty without becoming supper. Might have been the easier fate, or so she lamented each time her mind replayed the crash of the passenger-laden tanque at fifth gear against the side of their small car. How much she might have avoided!
Of course—then she never would have known Cassandra. That made all this a reasonable trade. Cold rain softened the black earth to the greedy consistency of clay, but her body served where her eyes failed. The darkness was normally no trouble, but now she squinted while she ran and, under sway of a dangerous adrenaline high, was side-swiped by more than one twisting branch. The old road that was her immediate goal, Highway 128, would lead her to the coast of her favorite Jurisdiction, but she now had to rediscover that golden path after the crash’s diversion. In an effort to evade her pursuers, she had torn into a pear orchard without thought of their canine companions. Not that the soldiers of the Americas kept companions like Europa’s nobles. These dogs were tools. Well-honed, organic death machines with a cultivated taste for living flesh, whether martyr or human. The dogs understood something that most had forgotten: the difference between the two was untenable. Martyrs could tell themselves they were superior for an eternity, but it wouldn’t change the fact that the so-called master race and the humans they consumed were the same species.
That was not why Cassandra had died, but it hadn’t contributed to their marital bliss. And now, knowing what she did of the Hierophant’s intentions—thinking, always, what Cassandra would have said—the Governess pretended she was driven by that ghost, and not by her own hopelessness. Without the self-delusion, she was a victim to a great many ugly thoughts, foremost among them being: Was the fear of life after her wife’s death worth such disgrace? A death sentence? Few appreciated what little difference there was between human and martyr, and fewer cared, because caring was fatal. But she was a part of the Holy Family. Shouldn’t that have been all that mattered? Stunning how, after three centuries, she deserved to be treated no better than a human. Then again, there was nothing quite like resignation from one’s post to fall in her Father’s estimate. Partly, he was upset by her poor timing—she did stand him up at some stupid press event, but only because she hoped it would keep everybody occupied while she got away. In that moment, she couldn’t even remember what it was. Dedicating a bridge? Probably. Her poor head, what did the nature of the event matter when she was close to death?
Of the many people remaining on Earth, those lumped into the group of “human” were at constant risk of death, mutilation, or—far worse—unwilling martyrdom. This meant those humans lucky enough to avoid city-living segregation went to great lengths to keep their private properties secure. Not only houses but stables. The Disgraced Governess found this to be true of the stables into which she might have stumbled and electrocuted herself were it not for the bug zaps of rain against the threshold’s surface. Her mind made an instinctive turn toward prayer for the friendliness of the humans in the nearby farmhouse—an operation she was quick to abort. In those seconds (minutes?) since the crash, she’d succeeded in reconstructing the tinted windows of the tanque and a glimpse of silver ram’s horns: the Lamb lurked close enough to hear her like she spoke into his ear. It was too much to ask that he be on her side tonight.
Granted, the dogs of the Lamb were far closer, and far more decisive about where their loyalties stood. One hound sank its teeth into her ankle, and she, crying out, kicked the beast into its closest partner with a crunch. Slower dogs snarled outrage in the distance while the Disgraced Governess ran to the farmhouse caught in her left periphery. The prudent owners, to her frustration, shuttered their windows at night. Nevertheless, she smashed her fist against the one part of the house that protruded: the doorbell required by the Hierophant’s “fair play” dictatum allowing the use of electronic barriers. As the humans inside stumbled out of bed in response to her buzzing, the Disgraced Governess unholstered her antique revolver and unloaded two rounds into the recovered canines before they were upon her. The discharge wasn’t a tip-off she wanted to give to the Lamb and her other pursuers, but it hastened the response of the sleeping farmers as the intercom crackled to life.
“Who is it?” A woman’s voice, quivering with an edge of panic.
“My name is Dominia di Mephitoli: I’m the former Governess of the United Front, and I need to borrow a horse. Please. Don’t let me in. Just drop the threshold on your stables.”
“The Governess? I’m sorry, I don’t understand. The Dominia di Mephitoli, really? The martyr?”
“Yes, yes, please. I need a horse now.” Another dog careened around the corner and leapt over the bodies of his comrades with such grace that she wasted her third round in the corpses. Two more put it down as she shouted into the receiver. “I can’t transfer you any credits because they’ve frozen my Halcyon account, but I’ll leave you twenty pieces of silver if you drop the threshold and loan me a horse. You can reclaim it at the docks off Bay Street, in the township of Sienna. Please! He’ll kill me.”
“And he’ll be sure to kill us for helping you.”
“Tell him I threatened you. Tell him I tricked you! Anything. Just help me get away!”
“He’ll never believe what we say. He’ll kill me, my husband, our children. We can’t.”
“Oh, please. An act of mercy for a dying woman. Please, help me leave. I can give you the name of a man in San Valentino who can shelter you and give you passage abroad.”
“There’s no time to go so far south. Not as long as it takes to get across the city.”
It had been ten seconds since she’d heard the last dog. That worried her. With her revolver at the ready, she scanned the area for something more than the quivering roulette blotches swelling in her right eye. Nothing but the dead animals. “He’ll kill you either way. For talking to me, and not keeping me occupied until his arrival. For knowing that there’s disarray in his perfect land. He’ll find a reason, even if it only makes sense to him.”
The steady beat of rain pattered out a passive answer. On the verge of giving up, Dominia stepped back to ready herself for a fight—and the house’s threshold dropped with an electric pop. The absent mauve shimmer left the façade bare. How rare to see a country place without its barrier! A strange thing. Stranger for the front door to open; she’d only expected them to do away with the threshold on the stables.
But, rather than the housewife she’d anticipated, there stood the Hierophant. Several bleak notions clicked into place.
One immaculate gray brow arched. “Now, Dominia, that’s hardly fair. Knowledge of your disgrace isn’t why I’ll kill them. The whole world will know of it tomorrow morning. You embarrassed me by sending your resignation, rather than making the appearance I asked of you, so it is only fair I embarrass you by rejecting your resignation and firing you publicly. No, my dear. I will kill these fine people to upset you. In fact, Mr. McLintock is already dead in the attic. A mite too brave. Of course”—he winked, and whispered in conspiracy—“don’t tell them that.”
“How did you know I’d come here?”
“Such an odd spurt of rain tonight. Of all your Jurisdictions, this one is usually so dry this time of year! Won’t you come in for tea? Mrs. McLintock brews a fine pot. But put that gun away. You’re humiliating yourself. And me.”
What is the biggest influence/interest that brought you to this genre?
I’ve always loved science fiction, but I was much more into watching sci-fi than reading it until about 2014. I think for a while there I bought into the sort of dismissive attitude society has about the genre, but over the past five years that’s undergone a shift and I’ve seen embedded in the subtext of all science fiction (and fantasy, too) the template of a universal psychic truth which is eternally expressing itself through fiction. The 2001: A Space Odyssey or Philip K. Dick-type story which points to the notion that all human beings are expressions of the divine.
Once I realized that pattern at work, I realized that fiction bearing these wonderful, important philosophical explorations almost exclusively features straight white male protagonists. LGBTQ people, women, and minorities needed not just an adventure story like that of their own—they needed a story that proved their dilemmas are just as universal as those of heterosexuals. Just as universal, and ultimately the same dilemmas wrapped up in different combinations of gender, orientation, skin color, etc.
When writing a book, what is your favorite part of the creative process(outline, plot, character names, editing, etc)?
My favorite part of writing a book is getting to know the characters, because they tell me the story when I get to know them well enough. The prevailing theme of blindness in The Disgraced Martyr Trilogy was appropriate because I felt very blind to the story as I was writing it—I had just a few key parts, certain events I really wanted to write, but I really didn’t know or understand much, if anything, about the plot. I got to know the protagonist, Dominia, in a very superficial way literally as I was writing the first paragraphs of the novel, but throughout that long haul of writing the first drafts of Book I-III I got to know her, along with tons of other characters who popped up very randomly throughout her journey as a result of my need for plot devices.
But if I’m being honest, there’s only one character you need to know to get your story to click into place: the villain! Don’t tell Dominia, but the Hierophant is probably my favorite character. At least, my favorite to write. A lively, plastic villain who wants nothing more than to make your protagonist’s life a living hell is the author’s best ally in creating an exciting story.
When reading a book, what genre do you find most interesting/intriguing?
I’m really into a lot of non-fiction right now, actually, but my favorite genre will probably always be transgressive fiction. I love to read really controversial, sometimes obscene books whenever I can find them! It’s a habit started as a teenager upon discovering Wikipedia’s banned books article…since first cracking open Nabokov’s Lolita at the age of 14, then moving on to contemporary works like American Psycho and Fight Club and the books of my favorite living author, Supervert, I’ve just never been able to get enough of the dark side of humanity and the human mind. That’s another reason why I love writing villains so much, and why Dominia, the protagonist of The Hierophant’s Daughter and the other Disgraced Martyr Trilogy books, is so flawed. I get really bored when I read books about moral people doing good things and trying to be good. I don’t want to read about a detective solving a mystery unless he’s like Irvine Welsh’s bastard cop in Filth, or a drug-addled hippie like Pynchon’s protag from Inherent Vice!
If you could co-author with any author, past or present, who would you choose?
William S. Burroughs, 1000%—failing digging him up, I’d settle for some kind of deviant collaboration with the evil genius, Supervert. Call me, Daddy.
Have you always wanted to write or did it come to you "later in life"?
I’ve always wanted to write—my father was just telling me the other day how he wished he saved a story of my telling he recorded when I was three years old! Apparently it involved a bunny, a ghost, and a skeleton. I like to think my writing has matured somewhat since then, but I’ve got to admit, I’m personally intrigued by that cast! But I remember having a writing workshop every Wednesday in second grade, where the whole class had to work on picture books. I was by far the most prolific, and the next year went on to writing my first three to five page short story as the result of a spelling assignment…in other words, my writing has always been out of hand! Truly, something with a mind of its own—something that chose me, not the other way around. And I’m not complaining!
I’ve always loved science fiction, but I was much more into watching sci-fi than reading it until about 2014. I think for a while there I bought into the sort of dismissive attitude society has about the genre, but over the past five years that’s undergone a shift and I’ve seen embedded in the subtext of all science fiction (and fantasy, too) the template of a universal psychic truth which is eternally expressing itself through fiction. The 2001: A Space Odyssey or Philip K. Dick-type story which points to the notion that all human beings are expressions of the divine.
Once I realized that pattern at work, I realized that fiction bearing these wonderful, important philosophical explorations almost exclusively features straight white male protagonists. LGBTQ people, women, and minorities needed not just an adventure story like that of their own—they needed a story that proved their dilemmas are just as universal as those of heterosexuals. Just as universal, and ultimately the same dilemmas wrapped up in different combinations of gender, orientation, skin color, etc.
When writing a book, what is your favorite part of the creative process(outline, plot, character names, editing, etc)?
My favorite part of writing a book is getting to know the characters, because they tell me the story when I get to know them well enough. The prevailing theme of blindness in The Disgraced Martyr Trilogy was appropriate because I felt very blind to the story as I was writing it—I had just a few key parts, certain events I really wanted to write, but I really didn’t know or understand much, if anything, about the plot. I got to know the protagonist, Dominia, in a very superficial way literally as I was writing the first paragraphs of the novel, but throughout that long haul of writing the first drafts of Book I-III I got to know her, along with tons of other characters who popped up very randomly throughout her journey as a result of my need for plot devices.
But if I’m being honest, there’s only one character you need to know to get your story to click into place: the villain! Don’t tell Dominia, but the Hierophant is probably my favorite character. At least, my favorite to write. A lively, plastic villain who wants nothing more than to make your protagonist’s life a living hell is the author’s best ally in creating an exciting story.
When reading a book, what genre do you find most interesting/intriguing?
I’m really into a lot of non-fiction right now, actually, but my favorite genre will probably always be transgressive fiction. I love to read really controversial, sometimes obscene books whenever I can find them! It’s a habit started as a teenager upon discovering Wikipedia’s banned books article…since first cracking open Nabokov’s Lolita at the age of 14, then moving on to contemporary works like American Psycho and Fight Club and the books of my favorite living author, Supervert, I’ve just never been able to get enough of the dark side of humanity and the human mind. That’s another reason why I love writing villains so much, and why Dominia, the protagonist of The Hierophant’s Daughter and the other Disgraced Martyr Trilogy books, is so flawed. I get really bored when I read books about moral people doing good things and trying to be good. I don’t want to read about a detective solving a mystery unless he’s like Irvine Welsh’s bastard cop in Filth, or a drug-addled hippie like Pynchon’s protag from Inherent Vice!
If you could co-author with any author, past or present, who would you choose?
William S. Burroughs, 1000%—failing digging him up, I’d settle for some kind of deviant collaboration with the evil genius, Supervert. Call me, Daddy.
Have you always wanted to write or did it come to you "later in life"?
I’ve always wanted to write—my father was just telling me the other day how he wished he saved a story of my telling he recorded when I was three years old! Apparently it involved a bunny, a ghost, and a skeleton. I like to think my writing has matured somewhat since then, but I’ve got to admit, I’m personally intrigued by that cast! But I remember having a writing workshop every Wednesday in second grade, where the whole class had to work on picture books. I was by far the most prolific, and the next year went on to writing my first three to five page short story as the result of a spelling assignment…in other words, my writing has always been out of hand! Truly, something with a mind of its own—something that chose me, not the other way around. And I’m not complaining!
M.F. Sullivan is the author of Delilah, My Woman, The Lightning Stenography Device, and a slew of plays in addition to the Trilogy. She lives in Ashland, Oregon with her boyfriend and her cat, where she attends the local Shakespeare Festival and experiments with the occult.
Find more information about her work (and plenty of free essays) here.
