Chapter 10. In which the Queen is not amused

Cindi was back in her house, now, at last, packed and ready to go.

It was time to tell her the rest. Well, the rest of what she needed to know for this trip home. This was going to be hard. For me. She had called me a God and meant it, so I had to handle this carefully. I had to expose some weakness.

«“Cindi, before you go, there are some things we have to talk about.”»

“Of course, my Lord. Anything you need.”

«“I’ve never been to Themiscyra before.”»

“Well, My Lord, it’s really not that different from any other small city in Greece-”

«“No, baby bitch, you don’t understand. I’ve been observing you for almost your entire time as a superheroine, seventy-plus years. I’ve followed you everywhere you’ve ever gone, except there. When you cross the boundary of the glamour enchantment, I lose contact with you.”»

“Oh... Oh! Please, My Lord! Please don’t make me go! I —”

«“Shh, Calm down. Now that you and I are close, intimate, connected, I have every confidence that I will be able to hold onto you across the boundary. But I don’t KNOW that. Since I found out that Themiscyra was there I’ve tried all sorts of ways to get in. All with no success. So, without getting too, um, technical, the various modes of failure give me reason to believe that this attempt will succeed.”»

“My Lord ... I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

«“Right. If I fail ... if I lose contact with you, I want you to leave Themiscyra once a day, if possible, to report in with me, even just an hour or even a half hour will do.”»

“My Lord ... I need more than a half hour a day with you. I need it.”

«“I swear, Cindi, if all you can give me is a half hour, I will fill that half hour with a full day’s worth of pleasure.”»

Uncertainly she consented, “Yes ... My Lord.” She didn’t really have any other choice.

«“But we won’t worry about it unless we need to. And we are going to cross that boundary with every confidence that it will work, that I will still be with you afterward.”»

“My Lord ... how ... long have you known about Themiscyra?”

«“Seventy-two years, baby bitch. Ever since a certain Greek superheroine came to the attention of an RAF air marshal in Crete. I was monitoring him to keep track of Nazi expansion. I could have tracked the Nazis directly, but I always felt like I needed a bath after reading Nazi minds.”»

“I see, almost from the beginning then. The beginning of ‘Majestic Woman’, that is.”

«“Yes.”»

“Why didn’t you take me then, My Lord? Why did you make me wait seven decades to find my real purpose in life?”

«“I had to trap you. I had to tame you. I had to do it all without breaking your mind and driving you mad. I’ve done this before. You had to believe it was a dream, until you no longer wanted it to be a dream. To believe the dream, you had to believe that the person bowing to me was really you, or at least your dream avatar. That means I needed Annette. I had to do it the way I did it to teach you. Had I done it any other way you would be a drooling idiot or a soulless robot. I needed to change you. But I needed you to still be you at the end.”»

“So it’s just one more example of my pride, my haughty arrogance, keeping me from being the person I was meant to be.”

How do you answer something like that. I decided not to argue with her. Then it hit me. This is exactly how I want her to feel about her old life. Why was I even thinking of trying to convince her otherwise? «“Yes, little cocksucker. It is.”»

“My life was a waste until I met you, My Lord.”

I smiled, marvelling once again at how swiftly I had gained such complete control over this erstwhile heroine. Now if I could only keep myself under control! «“That’s okay, baby. Your life’s not over yet.”»

“So ... Annette, My Lord?”

«“Specially bred to be your doppelganger. You had to believe it was you in the dream, so I had to breed your twin. I was prepared for it to take as long as three hundred years, but I got lucky in only the third generation. You’re worried about those seventy wasted years? It could have been much, much longer. Come on, sweet tits, let’s go talk to your mama.”»

She signaled for teleport. We departed.

Banshee, the Wraith’s young “associate” was duty officer today. Blake hated the word “sidekick”; he thought it was demeaning; he was probably right. All business, Banshee took Majestic Woman’s desired placement — three thousand feet above the island of Crete — and placed her there with nary a stray word exchanged. Cindi picked Crete. I seemed to have stirred up some memories. Good.

Themiscyra, Greece, April 22, 1941

It was going to be the scariest night of Kynthia’s life, but it ended up being the most thrilling instead. Ten days before, she had saved a pilot from the wreckage of his Whitley bomber, over the outcries of her Amazon sisters to let him die. She had nursed him back to some semblance of health single-handedly, over the active hindrance of her own mother.

Now their patience, Hippolyta’s, the Amazon Queendom’s, was at an end. He had to go. But outside of the glamour of Themiscyra, in his current state, he would have no hope of evading the Nazis. So Kynthia was going with him.

Her own mother called her a fool, blasphemously sneering at “Aphrodite’s curse of great compassion”. She followed Kynthia and the pilot all the way to the glamour’s edge, ignoring the man and lambasting her daughter. In fact, it seemed as if half of Themiscyra had followed them, carrying torches, guns, and rifles, bound and determined that the evil man would leave now.

For his part, the pilot was silent. His brief time among the legendary Amazons has taught him better; his opinion was less than nothing. Besides, Kynthia had told him to conserve his energy for her insane plan to get him back to his base in Crete.

In fact if he had piped up, Kynthia was certain he would have added his voice to Hippolyta’s. He had already told Kynthia in no uncertain terms that she was going to get herself killed trying to save him. But in the end there was nothing he could do to stop her. So she half-carried him, away from the protection the Gods’ glamour, toward the ongoing blitzkrieg.

Then, there at the edge of the Queendom’s glamour, everything changed. An unnatural hum presaged a day-bright glow, which resolved itself into five heavenly, beautiful, dreamlike figures. Kynthia’s five patron Gods appeared to them all, floating in midair.

The Gods spoke! But it was impossible to tell which one was speaking! From sentence to sentence the voices changed. But the message was always the same.

“We are moved, child ... By your compassion for the stranger in your midst ... The time has come, Kynthia ... For you to meet your destiny and fulfill your birthright ... You have been chosen ... To carry out Our mission in the world of Men ... Prepare now to receive new gifts ... Of great power to use in Our service.”

Kynthia was awestruck. She had never really put much stock in all that “Child of Destiny” clap-trap her mother had fed her growing up. But here was irrefutable proof that it was all true!

Seeing the scene then fresh in Cindi’s memory, I could see that the gods’ reason for intervening was just so much bullshit. The most obvious reason for them to intervene would be to prevent “Kynthia” from being captured and tortured by some of the world’s foremost experts in the art, eroding that strong will until she eagerly led them straight into downtown Themiscyra.

It was all so clear to me. “Why didn’t these ‘gods’ just kill her then?” you might ask. Two reasons. First, the Amazons believed they were a “chosen people” and that among them Kynthia herself was a “child of destiny”. You couldn’t just go around killing people that you yourself had set up with such expectations.

Second, fights, insults, and abuse aside, Hippolyta loved her daughter more than life itself. If they had wanted to turn the Queen of the Amazons from a devoted thrall into a lifelong enemy, killing Kynthia, or even just allowing her to die, would be the surest way. Of course, they absolutely didn’t want that. So instead they made a virtue of necessity, and made Kynthia a demigod.

That’s what a demigod was, after all. Just a normal human that the sick bastards had tinkered with. Ares, Hestia, Hades, Heracles, Circe, they were all as human as you once. All were changed on the down low and given some “Child of the Gods” back story. I could read their minds. I know what I’m talking about.

As far as I knew at that time, they hadn’t made a new demigod in over a millennium. But on that fateful day they were doing it to Kynthia. Unlike all the others, though, they were not doing it “on the down low”. They were going to make Kynthia a demigoddess in front of Hippolyta and half the Amazon Queendom. This was gonna require all the pomp and circumstance of an imperial coronation.

Hera approached and solemnly bestowed upon Kynthia the strength of the Gods.

Hermes gifted her with the Gods’ own ability to ascend into the heavens, to fly.

Artemis gave her the senses of the Gods: eyesight keener than any eagle’s, hearing more acute than any wolf’s.

Athena gave her the shield of invulnerability that protects the Gods from harm.

And Aphrodite? Well, Aphrodite gave Kynthia her uniform...

It’s okay, have your laugh; I can wait until you’re done ... Ready? ... I see ... No, no, take your time ... There. Done? Alright. The uniform — or I should say uniforms, for Aphrodite presented her with five sets of them — had the most subtle and complex power of them all.

Aside from providing top-notch eye candy, the uniform cast a glamour over her that identified her uniquely. When she was not wearing the uniform, no one who did not already know her identity could tell that she was the Gods’ chosen hero. Because of this, she had never had to expend any effort at all maintaining a secret identity. The uniform did it for her.

The “goddess” called it “the Gods’ own gift of revealed concealment”. These guys were good at “concealment”. They’d been hiding a whole city for over three thousand years.

The ceremony went on for several hours, from twilight almost to midnight. The Gods had to explain to Kynthia the ins and outs, the intricacies of each gift, including her loss of power under male enslavement, which, by the way, always confused me. I could only imagine they threw it into the mix to keep her from getting too cocky.

Having explained her gifts to her, they then made her demonstrate them for the assembled crowd. The demo, not so incidentally, gave her some valuable practice time.

Of course, there was no longer any hurry. Now there was plenty of time to get the injured pilot back to Crete. When it was finally time to go, the newly-minted superheroine easily lifted the awestruck man and carried him away, holding him close and tight, while her Amazon sisters cheered her on. Kynthia shook her head. She could only marvel at her Amazon sisters’ stunning about-face, from bloodthirsty mob to cheering throng. Another miraculous gift from the “Gods”.

Somewhere over Greece west of Athens the flight lieutenant found he could neither restrain nor hide his gallant reflex. To both of their surprise, his brave little soldier standing at attention was not an unwelcome companion. Passing over the Isthmus of Corinth she lowered the Shield of Athena, and other more conventional barriers to entry, both for the first time ever. Somewhere over Peloponnesia between Isthmia and Sparta, she lost that which can never be recovered but nonetheless was of no value to her. Somewhere over the Mediterranean Sea north of Crete, after more than twenty-four hundred years of full, rich life, she finally experienced la petite mort.

Later — minutes later? a lifetime later? — she set down her charge, her lover, in front of an astonished guard. She protected Simon, one last time, from the guard’s bullets. She watched Simon leave, seeing him for the last time, being carried away in the back of a small lorry. Soon, after a most unusual telephone conversation, another lorry arrived to carry her off in a different direction.

Four weeks later, while government scientists of “Project Majestic“ in Arizona were still endlessly poking her, prodding her, testing her, her RAF pilot lover died in the first wave of paratrooper assaults when the Nazis attacked Crete.

But meanwhile we were now approaching Themiscyra. Cindi was done with her melancholy memories. Cindi was focused on the present. Cindi was nervous. She knew she had to obey me, but she desperately needed to stay connected to me. The risk of losing me was driving her nuts. I reassured her as best I could; I really was confident that I could stay with her this time.

Looking through her eyes I saw the city laid out before me. This was no different than the other times. I was seeing what she saw, and her eyes were unaffected by the concealing glamour. She had decided to circle around and come in from the east to avoid “Stinky Pond”, a hot sulfur spring on the undeveloped southwest side of the city. Even from here we could see the tall, shimmery column of hot moist stench that rose from the spring. Yes, I was glad we went the other way.

Now we were at the boundary, and I felt it trying to rip me from her. She felt it too; she held her head and screamed. But she continued on. Her Lord demanded it of her. Soon the tension ebbed. I was still connected. I was inside one of my enemy’s most guarded secrets, for the first time since I found out about it.

«Are ... are you there, My Lord?»

«“Yes, baby bitch, it was a rough ride, but we made it. We hung onto each other. We fucking made it. I couldn’t have done it without you. Good girl!”»

She shivered with joy at my praise. «Good girl. Reward!» Suddenly she couldn’t wait until bedtime.

We had left before nine AM Arizona time, which put us in Themiscyra just before dusk. We flew low over the city quietly, but Amazons were nothing if not preternaturally alert. Many of her sisters looked up, and seeing the evening sun glinting against tiara, bustier, collar, and vambraces, they realized they were seeing their unofficial ambassador to “Man’s World”, the Chosen One of the Gods. They smiled and waved and spread the word.

Cindi took little notice until she saw a cop directing traffic. It was a busy intersection, and the traffic light was out. With Cynthia’s Artemis-sharpened vision the identity of the cop was unmistakable. Cindi swooped down behind her, grabbed her across her ample midsection, and spun her around like a rag doll.

“What the f-”, the cop started, and then realized who it must be, “Kynthia! Put me down, you whelp!” Of course, the actual words they spoke would no doubt be Greek to you. But your humble translator lives only to serve.

“Not until you say ‘please’, Kalliope!”

“Alright, alright. Please put me down, guttersnipe!”

There were only ten years’ difference in their ages out of literal thousands, but Kalliope still held it over her. She and Kalliope had been friends since they were both junior officers together. Kalliope was “Porthos” to Cindi’s “d’Artagnan”, an apt metaphor that had only been possible for her since she read Dumas’ first edition of his iconic classic a hundred fifty years or so ago. Alas, poor “Athos” and “Aramis” had both long since passed away, centuries before Alexandre Dumas was a gleam in his mother’s eye.

Traffic was snarled. Horns were honking. Cindi put her friend down. Kalliope straightened her tunic and tried to untangle the mess that had built up in only a few seconds. Greek drivers were not exactly the most courteous in the world. Amazons even less so. Over the roar of the traffic, Kalliope shouted, “So what brings you to town, Oh Chosen One?”

Raising her own voice to be heard, Cindi said, “You know, the usual. It’s been a while since I checked in. Thought I should. Why are you directing traffic? Surely you have enough seniority to be a senior detective at the very least.”

“I just got back a little over a year ago. I was up for city service again, and I intentionally picked something I could sleepwalk through. I was tired.”

“I bet! You’ll have to tell me about the Antarctic trip.”

“We pulled up a core almost four kilometers long, Kynthia. Four freaking kilometers! We hit liquid water that hasn’t touched atmosphere since the before hominids came down out of the trees. It was amazing.”

“Clearly this story needs more time to age if you can tell me the whole thing in one breath.”

“Meet me at Nike’s Wings, and I’ll show you how well this story has aged. First round on you.”

“I don’t know. I may not be able to make it tonight. You know how it is.”

“Yeah. I guess you better check in with the Mom-ster. The sooner the better. It’s the only hope I’ll have of seeing your adorable little mug at all while you’re here.”

Cindi’s face became a stoic mask. She took a fighting stance. “Foul varlet, Koala-pe! How dareth thou besmirch the name of thine own fair Queen. En Garde!”

“What, ho! Doth thou assault this officer of the law? I shall clap thee in irons, trollop!”

“Yeah. That’ll have to wait until later. I’ll bet she already knows I’m here.”

“Scoot. Scoot. You know where to find me.”

And then Cindi was in the air again, heading straight for “city hall”.

There were three tiers of gatekeepers in front of the “Mayor’s Office”, but Cindi was ushered through each without delay.

Well, at the first desk she had stopped herself, dropping off her rucksack. The functionary assured Cindi that she would see that her things made it to her room.

So after being waved through two more doors she finally entered her mother’s office. Her mother, Queen Hippolyta, was attired in a smart business suit that would have received an approving nod from Liz Warren or Condi Rice. She was already standing, smiling, walking around the desk to offer her daughter a hug.

“Well, it’s about time. Did you disrupt the whole city before coming to see me? Or just the one intersection?”

“I love you too, Mamá. I see the place is still standing.” Kynthia bowed and incanted formally, “‘You lead your people with wisdom and courage.’“

“Ha! Sometimes I wonder ... Oh, before I forget... ‘Your service brings honor to us all’ ... My goodness, but you look wonderful. How could such beauty have come from me?”

“Well, according to you —”

“Shh. Just let me look at you for a bit.” Holding her daughter at arm’s length, she did just that with a beaming smile.

«“Well, this seems to be going pretty well.”»

«It always starts out like this, My Lord.»

Against my better judgment, I loosened my death grip on Cindi’s mind and risked a probe of Hippolyta. Oh no. Storm clouds on the horizon.

“So, Kynthia, what pulls my daughter away from the mission of the Gods?” That was a slap, believe it or not.

Cindi was already on the defensive, but tried to ignore it. Hippolyta thought her daughter never should have left the Queendom. Having her nose rubbed in it by the Gods themselves didn’t make Hippolyta any more happy about it either.

“Mamá, I ... I wish to return the tiara,” Cindi cut to the chase, removing the symbolic crown from her head. «Let’s get it over with.»

“I never gave you that tiara.”

“Yes, Mamá, I know. But the Gods don’t exactly visit me whenever I want. So I am turning it over to the next authority figure in that chain of command.”

Noticing now the collar padlocked around her daughter’s throat, Hippolyta was suddenly boiling with rage. Through clenched teeth she asked, “You wish to exchange a symbol of leadership ... for a symbol of-of slavery?”

“Yes, Mamá.”

“Whatever for?”

“I’m on love, Mamá.”

“Oh, Gods! Not another man like that ... that...” She began waving her hand dismissively, “Sidney!”

Now Cindi went off track. “His name was Simon, Mother, Simon Tremaine. And he was a hero. A brave ‘man‘.”

“He didn’t seem so brave when he knocked down half of Themiscyra.”

“His plane crashed into one empty building, not half of town, and the only reason it did that was because the glamour made it look like he was coming down into an open field. We killed his whole crew; he did nothing to hurt us.”

“Even so, you should have left him to his fate. He was a man.”

“He was a warrior and a hero on the side of the angels, Mother.”

“Angels? Are you a Christian now?”

“It’s just a metaphor, Mother, and you damn well know it.”

“Watch your tone with me, ‘Chosen One’.”

“Aaarrgh. Why do we do this? Every. Single. Time. I don’t want to fight with you, Mamá!”

“Then don’t tell me you’re in love with a mortal. Show me that you have some brains, Kynthia.”

“I’m not in love with a mortal.”

“But you said —”

“I’m in love with a God.”

That stopped Hippolyta cold. This was serious business. These people were personally acquainted with their Gods. They didn’t bandy the term around lightly. Hippolyta paused and considered her next words ... carefully, “Not one of our Gods, I take it?”

“No, Mother. Not one of ours.”

More silence. “And this ... God ... loves you too?”