by Brian Blose
The investigator grunted. “How do I know you're not lying?”
“I memorized the Book of Grievances. Do you think I did that in a single night?” He had, actually. “My parents need to explain why they don't support the Opposition. Maybe they are just Atheists.”
“Just Atheists?”
“Better than being Worshipers. Or Agents. Chapter two, paragraph twelve: 'The Opposition has four enemies. First are the Apathetic, those who accept the Mission but lack zeal. Inspire them through exhortation or communal pressure or fear. Second are the Atheists, those who refuse to believe the Demiurge exists. Force their conversion at all costs. Third are the Worshipers, those who serve the Demiurge. Kill them. Fourth are the Agents of the Demiurge. They are the greatest enemy of the Opposition. Torture them day and night for the crime of serving the source of evil.'”
The Investigator smirked. “Are you trying to impress me? Every twelve-year-old can quote that passage.”
“Name another as a test.”
“Chapter seven, paragraph four. A personal favorite.”
His perfect memory supplied the exact words, but Erik thought that level of aptitude might be a bit suspicious. “Paragraph four? Let me think a minute. That whole chapter is about personal conduct. Paragraph two covers proper grooming. Three is about clothes. So four is the one about proper language. 'Let the words you speak convey your dignity. Coarse language is the recourse of a weak and low mind. Members of the Opposition aspire to be greater than our default nature.'”
The Investigator sat back in his chair. “Close. It actually starts with 'Let every word.' But not terrible.”
“I would like to join your congregation this week.”
“Talk to the Deacon. She handles the mundane work of the parish.”
Erik wanted to ask to join the investigation team, but it was too soon for that. It would look suspicious. No. First his parents would be found guilty. He would join the congregation. Over a few months, he would gain respect here as a scholar of the Book. Then he would ask to be a deputy investigator.
From there, he could work his way up the hierarchy of the Church's militant arm. Before long, Erik would be in the perfect spot to resume his search for Hess and Elza. Last Iteration, it had taken five years and a careless stunt for him to find Hess.
Then the Creator ended that world before Erik had the chance to do more than warm Hess up. The timing had seemed ominous. But then came the most wonderful surprise. A Church organization existed that was perfectly designed to aid him in apprehending and punishing Hess. It was as if the Creator wanted to help him. Even better, the Church was a surprise. Erik's identity, Fran Wilson, had no memory of it. Presumably the same was true of Hess.
Erik wiped the smile from his face. He wasn't supposed to be happy. He was, after all, setting his parents up to die horrible deaths.
Chapter 4 – Hess / Iteration 145
Inspector Monterey studied their every move as they navigated the cavernous interior of the Church building. At Elza's urging, Hess had spent the previous evening looking through hundreds of online photos of weddings and funerals that had taken place within this building so that he was superficially familiar with the layout. Hopefully familiar enough to fake years of casual church attendance.
Hess and Elza chatted with neighbors they recognized on their way to the meeting room. Hess shook hands with fellow executives at TFK Motors and introduced Elza as a special friend. For her part, Elza dragged him around to meet numerous people a decade younger than his apparent age. None of their social interactions lasted long. Under the guise of smitten lovers going public, they managed to escape each conversation without exchanging more than the most basic pleasantries.
After researching the Church of Opposition overnight, they knew enough of its theology and traditions to participate in a meeting. What they lacked was knowledge of how their identities had participated in the Church previously. They knew they were not members of the local congregation, but it would be odd for their identities to have never had any interactions with the dominant religion of the world.
Getting those details wrong would be suspicious. Thus the new love charade. Hess thought they sold the act convincingly enough, given the wistful expressions cast their way by the elderly and the annoyed eyerolls of the young. In fact, Hess thought he himself was the only person in the room not sold on their mutual devotion. Every touch of his brought an unwelcome tension to Elza's shoulders.
She never held grudges long. Yesterday's events should be forgiven. Yet they still had not made love in their new bodies. Usually the novelty of becoming intimately familiar with their latest forms kept them occupied for quite some time.
It continued to surprise Hess how much difference there was between bodies. In one like his current, a formidable libido lurked in the background, subtly sexualizing every situation so that a bit lip appeared an erotic invitation. Other bodies seemed keyed to quiet contemplation and required serious stimulation to elicit any reaction.
And those were only the differences in his bodies. Elza could range from nymph to asexual depending upon the body. Demographics didn't seem to matter much. They had each been elders with appetites and young adults lacking passion. Body composition, skin color, and relative attractiveness all proved unreliable forecasts.
Even the fake history of their identities failed to predict their responses. Jed Orlin had been far more interested in salary than sex. But give Hess the body of Jed Orlin and suddenly he couldn't keep his eyes from wandering all over the place. Of course, part of his problem may be due to the fact that a frigid Elza had been inserted into the body of the curvaceous Theora Winfield.
While people began taking their seats inside the meeting room, Hess studied his woman. She touched her lips a lot. Elza tended to do that when her body was wired for pleasure. But she had dressed in a separate room that morning.
They sat towards the back of the meeting room in hard pews. Up front, the Deacon of the congregation stood in front of the podium and raised his right fist into the air. “Damn the Demiurge!”
Everyone erupted to their feet, punched a fist into the air, and shouted the profanity back at the Deacon loud enough that their combined roar echoed in the cavernous space. “Damn the Demiurge!”
The Deacon was an old, distinguished man with a hawkish appearance. He glared at his audience. “This world is flawed!”
“Damn the Demiurge!”
The Deacon slammed a fist on the podium. “Full of pain!”
“Damn the Demiurge!”
“Our bodies are made to fail!”
“Damn the Demiurge!”
“The nations doomed to war!”
“Damn the Demiurge!”
“Our children can never have the happiness we want for them!”
“Damn the Demiurge!”
The Deacon paused dramatically, looked around the room, smiled. “We have been created to suffer and die. Existence itself is a punishment decreed for us before we ever became flesh. Pain and humiliation is what the Demiurge gave us.”
Hess almost shouted out the refrain, but held back, noticing the crowd waited for something. They held still and the Deacon's voice became softer. “People of the Opposition, what we have been given is worse than nothing. But we know the truth. We know of the world's flaws. We know of the Demiurge's spite. And we choose to meet spite with spite.”
The Deacon's voice rose. “We will fix the flaws!”
“Damn the Demiurge!”
“We will overcome the enemies!”
“Damn the Demiurge!”
“We will take the dignity that has been denied us!”
“Damn the Demiurge!”
After the final, roaring exclamation, militant music blared from speakers throughout the room. The members of the local Investigation Team marched up the aisles to about face and stare at the congregation. Their leader, Investigator Monterey, stepped to the podium.
“I am pleased to report that this parish remains
clear of all suspicious individuals. This community is a model of virtue for the entire nation to follow. I want to express my sincere admiration to each of you for your steadfast Opposition. You live your lives with true dignity.” Investigator Monterey brought his hands together in a steady clap that was taken up by the congregation.
When the Deacon returned to the podium, the Investigation Team took their seats in the front pew. “As I am sure everyone is aware, Investigator Monterey has been nominated for another Medal of Piety. His service to our community has been exemplary, and we all look forward to the award ceremony.”
There was more clapping, then the Deacon asked everyone to take a seat. Collection plates were passed around. Hess and Elza each contributed a generous amount. Next on the meeting agenda was a musical performance from the children.
As they sat there, listening to young boys and girls sing their hatred of the Creator, Elza reached one hand over surreptitiously to tap his elbow. Hess directed a quizzical expression at her, but at a shake of her head he dutifully returned his attention to the front of the room.
The tapping and caressing of his elbow continued. Hess tried to pay attention to the words sung by the children, but the mystery of Elza's behavior proved more interesting by far. Was she initiating something now? Hess felt himself reacting to the possibility.
It made no sense for her to become amorous at the moment. No matter the chemistry of her body, Elza was rational to a fault. She would not jeopardize their identities for a cheap thrill. Unfortunately, there was no way to have a frank conversation with her while surrounded by people . . . .
A memory rose from the depths. An Observer's perfect recall had limitations. First, they only remembered what they had consciously experienced. They couldn't flip through a book and instantly know its contents. They had to read the words one at a time to permanently capture them. Second, they couldn't remember all of it at once. Much as a normal person could only hold so much in short term memory, an Observer could only hold so much in long term memory. After that, things faded into deep memory.
Some experiences never left his primary memory – the moments that defined him refused to fade into the background. The memories that did fade wound up in the depths and could take some time to rise back to the surface when something triggered their recall.
Now, Hess remembered the lover's language of Iteration thirty-two. It had been invented as a means of private communication between aristocratic couples. After enjoying a few generations of popularity, the language had gone out of vogue and been forgotten by everyone except two Observers.
The fact that he had misinterpreted Elza's communications as foreplay meant he couldn't recall the exact sequence to translate. He tapped on the back of Elza's hand. Start again.
Her fingers stopped, then began anew. The rituals match the typical profile of those used by popular religions. They are all based around building communal identity and reinforcing cognitive biases.
Hess gave two gentle pinches in rapid succession with his thumb and index finger, the signal for agreement. I forgot all about this language.
The children's music ended and a lecturer pulled from the elders of the congregation went up front to speak about the threats to human dignity. Apparently, the threats were religion, atheism, homosexuality, and violent video games.
Elza's fingers tapped at his arm. Ridiculous. Obvious theological flaws. They oppose the Creator and any imposed natural order. So why oppose homosexuality? Non compliance with biology should be a virtue.
Hess waited until her fingers stopped to reply. All religions are the same. They pick things they approve and disapprove and worry about fitting things together later. It's just people using a platform to get power.
Her fingers pounded a response into his elbow. Not all the same. Some allow people to question assumptions and fix flaws. This one is incompatible with free thought.
Up front, the Deacon took the pulpit again to read a series of stories from the news. Each story highlighted people overcoming challenges in their lives. Throughout the congregation, people nodded in earnest approval of every word they heard. Elza's fingers remained still throughout his talk.
Then everyone stood to sing a few hymns of Opposition. When that was done, the Deacon delivered a benediction about seizing dignity from the mess of everyday life. Everyone raised a fist in the air, cursed the Creator a final time, and filed out of the meeting room to chat in the hallway and make their way home.
As Hess worked his way outside with Elza, Inspector Monterey appeared beside them. “I hope the two of you plan to attend regularly. I've been following up on our conversation yesterday, and both of you have spotless reputations in the community.”
Hess plastered a smile to his face. “We already agreed to attend again next week. Congratulations on your nomination, Investigator.”
The Investigator gave the slightest inclination of his head, then slipped away. Elza took his arm, tapping as they walked out the door together. He is career man, not interested in risking his reputation on someone who might not be found guilty.
As they strolled towards his house, Hess tapped back. When are you going to tell me what is bothering you?
Elza pulled her arm free. “Just give me some space, Hess.”
Chapter 5 - Erik / Iteration 2
He took the name Cazzel on his way into the village. Cazzel. A man from the previous world who liked to torment and force himself on those weaker than himself – typically women and young boys. A man who had the misfortune to turn his attentions upon the Creator's Observer.
A smile wormed its way onto his face as he recalled his retribution against the original Cazzel. That man had not enjoyed having a tent stake driven up his rectum one bit. Judging by how he had begged and threatened and screamed, having his tent burnt down on top of him hadn't been a pleasant experience either. Even as a woman in a man's world, the Creator's Observer had been superior.
Though if there were more than one Observer, then he wouldn't truly be the Creator's Observer. He would be one of the Observers. The evidence that others existed was thin, just stories of a man seeking his woman from another world. But knowledge of the Creator had come from somewhere. If one of these creatures had puzzled out the world's origins, then that was a development the Creator would need to know. On the other hand, if other Observers were out there, then he thought it only right to get familiar.
At the guest pavilion of this village, a man sat on the ground and tended a small fire in the hearth. Cazzel squatted beside the man. “Are you the one who greets visitors around here?”
The man shrugged as he poked at the fire. “Women's crafts and talking to guests is the only work fit for me anymore.”
Cazzel frowned. “Why do you say that? You look young and strong.”
The man's lips twisted into a sneer. “Tens of days ago I was young and strong. Today I am broken and worthless.”
“Well,” Cazzel said, “at least you are good at welcoming visitors.”
The man tossed his fire stick aside. “Welcome to our village, stranger. Have you come so late in the day to eat our food without sharing in our work? Will you leave early tomorrow before anyone can ask you to help us dig a new well? Are you one of those men who walks from village to village for free meals and brags of your brave travels? Or do you search for a home with many beautiful women and little work to go around? Tell me, stranger, what manner of wanderer are you?”
Cazzel cackled at the outburst. “I like you. Shame you're broken. We could get into all sorts of mischief otherwise.”
“I am no friend to you.”
“Oh, I never named you friend. I just enjoy a little hostility here and there.” Cazzel leaned forward to study the man. “Why is it you can't work?”
The man spat on the ground between them. “Entertain yourself.”
“Are there worms in your leavings? Does blood fill your phlegm? Or are you wrong in your head? What makes you broken, angry man?”
The man threw a wild punch. Cazzel shifted his weight to let it pass, then reached for his walking stick. Its end had a decorative knob carved to look like the face of a smiling bald man. When he gave that knob a strong pull, it would come off to reveal the walking stick had a sharpened point. It wasn't a spear by any means, but it was a weapon. No one harassed the Creator's Observer without punishment.
His hand on the knob, Cazzel hesitated. His opponent rolled back on his hips, face red with anger and humiliation, moving awkwardly. Where his legs should have been, there were only stumps. The man's deficit had been hidden by blankets before, but now that his hasty attack had exposed flesh, his deformity was unmasked for all to see.
Cazzel dropped his walking stick and bent to study the man. The flesh where his legs ended was covered with horrid scars. Clearly this was not a defect of birth. The man's legs had been removed. Recently.
“What happened to your legs?” he asked.
“Leave my village,” the man hissed. “Or I will say you hit me.”
Cazzel reached for his walking stick, pulled off its cap, and pressed the sharpened point to the cripple's chin. “Answer my question or I will do a lot worse than hitting you.”
“Go ahead. Kill me. You will be doing me a favor.”
Cazzel tilted his head to the side. “Then I won't kill you. I will do something you want less. The loss of your legs bothers you. If you don't give me the answers I want, then I will break more parts of your body.” He poked at the closer of the man's hands. “I will smash the bones at the back of your hand so you can never use your fingers again. If that doesn't motivate you, then I will knock out your teeth so that you can't chew food properly or sound out all your words. I could take your eyes and leave you in eternal darkness, or scar your face so that your family feels horror every time they look on you.”
