by Brian Blose
AGENTS OF THE DEMIURGE
Book II of The Participants
Brian Blose
Published by Brian Blose at Smashwords.
Copyright 2014 Brian Blose. All Rights Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters, places, and events are used fictitiously.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your sole use, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 – Erik / Iteration 2
Chapter 2 – Hess / Iteration 145
Chapter 3 – Erik / Iteration 145
Chapter 4 – Hess / Iteration 145
Chapter 5 – Erik / Iteration 2
Chapter 6 – Hess / Iteration 145
Chapter 7 – Erik / Iteration 145
Chapter 8 – Hess / Iteration 145
Chapter 9 – Erik / Iteration 2
Chapter 10 – Hess / Iteration 145
Chapter 11 – Erik / Iteration 145
Chapter 12 – Hess / Iteration 145
Chapter 13 – Erik / Iteration 2
Chapter 14 – Hess / Iteration 145
Chapter 15 – Erik / Iteration 145
Chapter 16 – Hess / Iteration 145
Chapter 17 – Erik / Iteration 2
Chapter 18 – Hess / Iteration 145
Chapter 19 – Erik / Iteration 145
Chapter 20 – Hess / Iteration 145
Chapter 21 – Erik / Iteration 2
Chapter 22 – Hess / Iteration 145
Chapter 23 – Erik / Iteration 145
Chapter 24 – Hess / Iteration 145
Chapter 25 – Erik / Iteration 2
Chapter 26 – Hess / Iteration 145
Chapter 27 – Erik / Iteration 145
Chapter 28 – Hess / Iteration 145
Chapter 29 – Erik / Iteration 2
Chapter 30 – Hess / Iteration 145
Chapter 31 – Elza / Iteration 145
Chapter 32 – Erik / Iteration 2
About The Author
Chapter 1 – Erik / Iteration 2
He took the name Mezzin as he entered the village. Mezzin. The name of a man from the previous world. A man who never properly existed, given the fact that the only remnant of his existence was an unflattering memory of the Creator’s Observer. But then, none of these creatures could be said to properly exist. They would all vanish when the Creator ended this world.
Mezzin smiled when he greeted an old man at the village’s guest pavilion. The elderly should be more perceptive with the benefit of experience, but they rarely achieved that potential. This one chose to ramble about the weather instead of inquiring about the business of a stranger. Foolish. But then, this world didn’t inspire the same paranoia as the previous one.
Was this a better world for the people to inhabit? Probably. These pathetic creatures didn’t have the requisite resilience to survive a brush with true brutality. The previous world saw them cowering in constant fear, striking out before they could become victims. This one saw them utterly dependent upon their community, terrified of what they saw as untamed wilderness beyond their settlements.
The village elder granted Mezzin guest status after a while, promising that if he worked hard the village would vote to adopt him as a new member. Mezzin made the appropriate gratitude-heavy response to the offer. The old man then introduced him to the work leader, a man named Rek.
“Why do you come to our village?” Rek spoke bluntly.
“I spent all my life with the same woman. She always wanted to be a mother, but for many years nothing happened. When she was almost too old for children, it finally happened. We were so happy.” Mezzin turned his face to the ground as if fighting emotion. “But she was not meant to be a mother. I could not stay after losing her and the baby, so I had to find a new home.”
Rek’s voice grew gentler. “I am sorry, friend. You can pick what work you wish to do today, whether you wish it to be easy or hard. The people will not think any less of you whatever your choice.”
Dead woman was a great back story. People gave him space to grieve, he could ask sensitive questions without raising suspicions, and none of the other men assumed he had come to tempt away their women. Embellishing the tale with the death of a long anticipated baby only sweetened the deal. The problem was, people assumed grief had rendered him fragile.
“I don’t ask for pity,” Mezzin said. “Give me the hardest work you have.”
The hardest work the village had that day was digging irrigation ditches. Mezzin used the shoulder blade of an antelope to dig the soil. The other men on ditch duty wore disgruntlement openly. Even in a society where men competed for reputations as hard workers, nobody truly wanted the hardest work. They were weak, all of them. They didn’t even eat the meat of land animals. The bones they used for tools came from corpses they found on the land around their villages.
Mezzin deepened the irrigation ditch with steady movements of his arms and back. Sweat poured from him in the ever-present heat. Blisters formed on the brown skin of his hands, then burst and bled before vanishing as if they had never existed. Mezzin continued to work at a maniacal rate until daylight began to fade. Then he stood to survey their progress.
The ditch licked a shallow river at one end, then snaked back and forth among the raised beds where Taro would grow. Irrigation was one hell of an idea. Thought up by the Creator, of course. These creatures only thought those ideas they were told to think and did actions they were shown to do. If this world hadn’t been born with a fake history of agriculture, then it would be hunt and gather all over again.
Roughly half the ditch had been completed. Mezzin could see the faint outline drawn in the dirt, marking where the water should flow. Even without the benefit of the markings, the proper location was obvious. The people of this village rotated their fields, like all the others. There had once been another irrigation ditch in the same spot they now dug. River silt, human refuse, foot traffic, and time had nearly erased the traces before the village rotated back to the same piece of land.
The other men brought Mezzin back to the center of the village, where everyone sat together to drink water before the women served dinner. He had to hear Rek tell everyone the sad history he had invented for himself. Had to hear the sympathies of the pathetic creatures directed at him. Had to react all depressed. Perhaps it was time for him to switch cover stories. Next village he would pose as a man being pursued by a pack of vicious man-eating tigers. That tale always stirred things up in a satisfying manner.
Women distributed banana leaves, then passed bowls of food around. Mezzin scooped some sticky Taro dough from one bowl and placed it on his leaf, pulled several plantains free from a bundle, took a few berries, added liberal amounts of green vegetables, and accepted a few nuts. He watched the people go about their nightly meal. They seemed to revel in their existence.
The old man who had welcomed Mezzin into the village stood up before everyone, placed a finger from each hand into his mouth, and whistled for attention. “Who wants to hear the story of the White Traveler?”
Mezzin sat slightly straighter. Stories were excellent material for the Creator. They cut through all the daily minutiae of life to get to the important things. Stories told you what people wanted, what they valued, and how they wished they could be. And, of course, stories were so much more interesting than watching a vi
llage of idiots put food into their mouths while swapping inane gossip.
The women of the village began to clap. The old man appeared disappointed. “None of the men want to hear this story? I cannot believe such a thing! Women, you must get the men excited for my story!”
The men groaned so nearly in unison that it appeared staged. Mezzin wiped the sneer from his mouth before anyone noticed. This was going to be one of those stories. Something about a fantastical figure teaching the men a lesson, no doubt. Mezzin didn’t care for such stories, not even when he suspected he might have inspired a few such stories himself.
Women and men alike were soon calling for the story of the White Traveler to be told. When the village had demonstrated its enthusiasm with a particularly annoying cacophony, the old man placed both hands over his heart and the crowd grew quiet.
“Near ten seasons ago, the White Traveler came through our village. He came from the North Road at sunset, and even in the dark we knew this stranger to be unusual in his looks. His skin was pale. Paler even than the skin of the Rhino. It wasn't until the next day that we saw him in proper light and knew his skin to be so white and clear that the veins of his arms and hands showed blue.
“This was a most unusual man in appearance. That first night, we asked who he was and what he wanted with us. I admit I was frightened of him. His oddness came from more than his looks. This man walked with big steps and talked in a strange manner and watched from pale eyes that held no fear of anything. He stood at the entrance of our guest pavilion and asked to be received as a friend.
“He said 'You may call me Wren, but my true name is a secret.' Now, friends, this seemed most unusual to me. So I asked what he wanted with us. 'I am walking the entire world,' the White Traveler told me. He had come from a place so far away that the people had pale skin. So I asked 'why do you travel the world?'
“The White Traveler looked at me and said 'I seek a woman.' I told him that he was welcome to stay in the guest pavilion, but that I didn't think any of our women would ask him to be their man. He told me 'I do not want to steal anyone from your village. I walk the world for a particular woman.'”
The old man shook his head in wonder. “He said these words, and every woman in the entire village instantly wanted him. I have never seen so much fuss over one man in my long life. But the White Traveler, he would not say yes to any woman who asked him to be her man. He said he wanted only the woman Elza.
“So we asked 'Who is this woman Elza? What does she look like?' But the man did not know! He said that he had known her in another life, another world. A frightening world, he told us, where no one was ever safe. He did not know if she was young or old, beautiful or homely. All the White Traveler knew was he wanted back his woman.
“Now, we all thought this man was crazy. Surely his tall tale could not be true, we said to one another. The man stayed with us three days, telling everyone his story and begging us to spread word to everyone we knew. I wanted to fix the man's crooked thoughts, so I began to ask him questions. I said 'How will you know Elza when you find her? You don't even know what she looks like!'
“But the White Traveler only smiled. He said 'She will know my true name.' So all the women began trying to guess the White Traveler's name. And of course no one guessed right. So on the day he left, I asked him 'Do you really think you'll find your woman?'
“The man looked at the horizon and said 'This world is larger than it has any right to be. But even if the maker of the world placed oceans and desserts between us, I will find her.”
Mezzin's breath caught. Maker of the world? Impossible. These creatures knew nothing of the Creator. They talked nonsense about mythical ancestors and people descending from animals, never suspecting the truth.
All around, the women sat straighter in anticipation. The story was not over. The old man pointed to a corner of the village square. “In my young days, I loved being around the beautiful women of this tribe so much that I used to pound the Taro into dough with them. One day, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen passed through our village. She was so stunning that my heart hurt and I could not stand to look upon her for more than a single glance at a time. This woman stayed only a single night, but I never forgot the look of her. Nor did the other men my age, though much time passed.
“Last summer, that woman returned to pass through our village. She had not aged a single day, though forty years were passed. Escorting her was the White Traveler. He also remained young. This woman went by the name of Elza. And she called her man Hess.”
The old man raised his shoulders in an awkward shrug. “We know so little about our world. Everyone knows that the road south has people with darker skin than ours, but until the White Traveler came, we never knew the road north would reach lands where people have paler skin. Perhaps the stories of the man are true. Perhaps the maker of the world exists. I do not know, friends. But I do know that the White Traveler went on a very long journey. And at its end, he did find the woman he sought.”
The old man sat for a drink of water and some rest while the village went back to its gossip. Mezzin left the remains of his meal to move closer to the old man. “Is every word of your story true?”
“Dear friend, surely a man your age has heard the story of the White Traveler! His path took him to all the villages I know of.”
Mezzin licked his lips. “What did this man say of the Creator?”
“That was the word he used for his maker of the world! Creator.”
He placed a hand to his head to fight a sudden vertigo. “Old man, did the White Traveler say if he worked for the Creator? Did he say if his purpose was to watch you? Did he use the word Observer?”
The old man's brow wrinkled. “No. He never said any of those things.”
Mezzin picked at his meal until the women came by to collect the banana leaves. As darkness descended, the people moved to their homes. The old man approached him. “Are you ready for sleep, friend?”
“This Hess and Elza went north when they left here?”
“Yes. I walked with them to the edge of the village when they left.”
Mezzin licked his lips. “This was one year ago?”
“Last summer.”
Without another word, Mezzin walked towards the north road, ignoring questions from the old man. There was no time to waste lounging around this village. He had Observers to find.
Chapter 2 – Hess / Iteration 145
The new world erupted into existence around Hess, a riot of sensory input following the nothingness between Iterations. He stood in the loading bay of an industrial warehouse, surrounded by the frozen forms of people not yet animated. Bright light streamed in from the open bay doors. To one side, stacks of palletized product waited beside a computer terminal. The scent of exhaust filled the air.
It presented a stark contrast to the world he had left. Perpetually gray skies were replaced by sunshine. Cracked mortar and rusting metal swapped with clean and new construction. Permafrost traded for green grass visible through the doors. The dying corpse of a world was gone, and a new one full of promise stood ready for him to observe.
Memories flooded into Hess, hazy impressions of a life within this world. A set of false recollections to match the fake history of the newly born universe. Black-and-white memories of snowball fights and prom dates and college courses and business trips flowed into him, meticulous in detail but oddly flat in tone so he could never mistake these memories for ones he had actually lived.
The name of his identity was Jed Orlin and he was the Director of Logistics for TFK Motors. He was one of the dark-skinned upper class, unlike the pale working class men around him posed about their tasks, created mid-motion. One man bent forward at the waist, dust pan held for another to sweep up glass fragments. Hess's new memories told him a forklift operator had smashed a fluorescent light several minutes past.
Three men he recalled as slackers congregated together, one of them with hands raised to emphasize whatever poi
nt he was making. Several others were using pallet jacks to move heavy steel components onto a waiting trailer. The truck driver stood beside the woman at the computer workstation, complaining to her that the bill of lading had not been e-filed prior to his arrival.
Hess lived in a gated community, drove a luxury car, and held season tickets to the symphony orchestra. He had just escaped a relationship with a half-pale gold-digger and a friend had set him up on a date with an attractive neighbor woman that evening.
Every Iteration of the world began in media res, only no one knew of the joke except him and eleven other Observers. People never noticed a difference between their present realities and their staged memories. They lacked the capacity to identify any inconsistencies within themselves.
The world crashed into motion around him. One moment there was the eerie silence of a world not yet alive and the next people continued actions they only thought they had begun – walking, talking, loading product, pushing a broom.
Hess pulled his smart phone out of his pocket. This world had an internet, which meant finding Elza would take a matter of days instead of decades or centuries. He fiddled with the touch screen interface until he found an app to connect him to public message boards.
The content of the messages he posted and where he chose to post them were part of an elaborate, organic code – the result of lifetimes of shared experiences. On a travel blog he reviewed a restaurant from the nineteenth Iteration that they had owned together. He placed a free advertisement on a classified site, “man looking for woman with lazy eye, will pay up to one tent.” On a message board for personal finance, Hess left an anecdote about selling pig bladders for profit.
On a less technological world, he would travel to the world's largest city and frequent its largest park every morning. When things became truly primitive, he simply covered as much ground as possible. But a world like this made things simple. They would both scatter electronic breadcrumbs to lead the other to their online presence, then establish contact and decide where to locate themselves.
