Agents of the Demiurge

by Brian Blose

  He smiled at the man. “I want simple answers. And you want me to go away. To be fair, I will answer your question first. You asked what manner of wanderer I am. The answer is a very dangerous one. I am willing to do more violence than anyone you have ever met. And I don't care if people hate me. I don't even care if they try to kill me.

  “Your turn now. What happened to your legs?”

  The man met Cazzel's gaze with fire in his eyes. “They were crushed between the stones of the old well.”

  “The old well? Did it collapse with you inside it?”

  “It collapsed when we pulled free one of the blocks lining the shaft. We needed the stones to hold up the walls of the new well.”

  Cazzel nodded, filling in the blanks in his mind. “Your old well went dry. Because the soil around here is sandy, you need stone to keep the new well from collapsing. But there isn't a lot of suitable stone to be found, so you scavenged from the old well. Somebody – probably you – pulled a stone free in the wrong order and caused an accident. Is all of that right?”

  “Yes, stranger,” the man spat. “All of that is right.”

  “The pain was terrible?”

  “Yes.”

  “When your people pulled you free, your legs were useless?”

  “Yes.”

  “They knew you would die from the wounds inside, so they cut off your legs and stopped the bleeding with fire?”

  The man shook his head. “No. My people wept and held me and said their goodbyes. I was ready for death. But then the strangers came. The White Man said he could save me, and my mother begged for his help.

  The cripple spat on the ground again. “The strangers took my legs and said I was healed. The life they gave me is worse than death. I was a hard worker. My village respected me. Women looked at me. Now every eye that turns my way shows pity.”

  “What were the names of these strangers?”

  “The White Man gave the name Tyro, but his woman called him Hess. The woman was Mara.”

  Cazzel smiled. Mara was the name of a village ten days' travel south. Not a proper woman's name at all, just a convenient moniker for an Observer. “Her real name was Elza.” He spoke before he thought through the words. Real name. The concept seemed odd to him. Names were for the pathetic creatures they observed. Names were things he used and discarded without a second thought.

  But the Observers he followed had names. Hess and Elza. Labels of convenience, maybe. Maybe something more. Real name. The name used by people who knew the truth about you. Soon he would need to choose a name for himself. A name that would follow him through eternity, persisting in world after world, one known to the others like him.

  “Which way did the strangers go when they left?”

  The man shrugged. “I didn't walk them to the end of the village.”

  Cazzel placed the knob on the end of his walking stick, hiding his weapon once more. “You don't have to worry that I will eat the food of your village without working in return. I am leaving tonight to follow those strangers.”

  “Are they your friends?” the cripple asked.

  “I'll figure that out when I meet them.”

  Chapter 6 – Hess / Iteration 145

  He fired Gwen Furman after setting her up to fail on what should have been a simple project. Her disgraceful exit from TFK Motors made it unlikely anyone would ever take her claims about him seriously. Not long after he took care of Gwen, the company president gave him a promotion to vice president of logistics, a title created specifically for him.

  Hess suspected the promotion had less to do with his performance than it did with the fact that he was a member of the same Church congregation as most of TFK Motor's executives. Dating Elza had benefits as well. As Theora Winfield, she had an uncle who was a judge presiding over Customs violation cases in TFK Motor's jurisdiction and a cousin on the board of Jones Automotive, their biggest customer. Also, Theora's father lived a life of leisure, on occasion attending charity events with important people.

  Elza's trust fund managed to make the wealth Hess had at his disposal appear laughable in comparison. The two of them rarely had access to so much money. Usually they lived as migrant workers in the worlds, drifting from place to place, taking odd jobs and going where whimsy led them. Those were his favorite times, when they lived by their wits and never knew what would happen next. In comparison, the steady grind of regular life wore on him.

  As he had for the past two months, Hess left work early. He had decided that since his performance had far less of an impact on his job than the quality of his connections, there was little incentive to put forth effort.

  The logistics department essentially ran itself, anyway. Connections ensured that the Church continued to use TFK Motors to warehouse and ship its weapons. Connections prevented any problems with Customs. Connections kept the people on top where they wanted to be. Meanwhile, those without connections worked their asses off to feed their families.

  Hess reflected on the mess of a world he inhabited as he drove home. A world he had created, however indirectly. Why, he wondered, do I create such worlds? When the consciousnesses of the twelve Observers merged to form the Creator, was equal weight given to Erik's desire to inflict pain as to Hess's opinions on how the world could be improved to benefit the people? Did the Creator engineer misery into His blueprints?

  If that was the case, then maybe the religion of Deispite had a point. Maybe the Creator was evil. Hess ground his teeth. Could everything wrong with the succession of sorry worlds be placed at the feet of a twisted Observer's obsession with spite and hatred?

  Erik had tormented him the previous Iteration. Threatened to hunt him through eternity. Two Iterations ago, Ingrid had led the group of Observers that buried him and Elza alive, leaving them to beat their fists against the insides of stone sarcophagi for centuries.

  The other Observers were a problem for more than just him. Their apathy and self-righteous hatred tainted every world they created, bringing billions of individuals into lives purposefully filled with pain. For that, they deserved the hatred directed at them by the Church of Opposition.

  When he arrived home, Hess began preparing an elaborate meal. He removed a flank steak from a vinegar-based marinade he had improvised and preheated the oven. With economical motions, he went about cutting sweet potatoes into fries. Cooking was a calming ritual for him. It combined simple tasks with the freedom for nearly unlimited variability. When the fries were cut, Hess pulled a tub of rendered duck fat from the fridge and tossed a portion of it into a skillet to heat up.

  Elza's parents were coming over for a late dinner. She had suggested eating out, but Hess needed the outlet cooking provided. Despite what everyone in the community assumed about Elza's frequent overnight stays, precious little happened that Hess would consider an outlet.

  Whatever consumed Elza left no room for the two of them. It was worse than the stretch in Iteration one hundred and four when she had despaired that they had already witnessed all the variety that humanity had to offer. Everything he had said to comfort her then had driven her further from him until it culminated in a year-long separation. When she had finally returned, Elza had told him that even if the people never did anything new, she thought there were further insights they could discover.

  This time, he didn't know what problem haunted Elza. She wasn't sharing and he knew better than to push.

  Hess pulled a bag of fresh green beans from the fridge and drizzled walnut oil onto a pan. While the oil heated, he pulled a pomegranate from the fridge and prepared it with deft strokes of a paring knife. The meal he had devised consisted of a salad topped with pomegranate and a balsamic vinaigrette, then a medium rare flank steak with a side of sweet potato fries and sauteed green beans, with a dessert created from frozen banana slices.

  Before he could start cooking the green beans, a knock at the door interrupted him. Hess wiped his hands before going to the door and peeking through the eye hole. On the other side, a wai
f-thin white woman waited. Her faded eyes flashed to the eye hole, no doubt noticing movement there, then rapidly moved on, taking in detail after detail in a meticulous fashion.

  Hess felt his lip curl into a snarl. Observer. He yanked the door open, seized the waif by an arm, and pulled her into his house. As she swung past him, Hess looped his other arm around her neck. A combination of her momentum and his rapid shoulder roll snapped the woman's spine.

  Hess closed his front door and dragged the Observer's body to his basement before she could resurrect.

  Chapter 7 – Erik / Iteration 145

  People took one look at him and melted into the background. His stocky build didn't have much to do with it. The somber cap of the Investigator's Corps scared people all by itself. In theory, Investigators couldn't violate the rights of a citizen without the prior approval of an elected judge. The restrictions were even greater for Deputy Investigators like him. But the power of his office made the rules nice and elastic.

  Of course, it wasn't all rainbows. The world was four months old and he had yet to entice the ugly truth free of one of the pathetic creatures. He liked to start every Iteration with a creative interrogation. Last time he had combined two of his favorite methods: silence and chemistry.

  The silence really messed with the people. Turned the torture up a notch. His first victim last Iteration had been a sinewy biker with steely eyes and a chiseled face. A tough bastard. For the first hour, at least. Then the threats and manly curses gave way to pleading and questions. Why are you doing this? What did I do to you? Why won't you say anything? That man had not particularly enjoyed having pepper spray squirted into his eyes.

  Erik's lips twitched towards a smile. He had broken that man by dribbling a solution of water and lye over one of his feet until the skin melted off of him into a gory puddle. Lye always ended the game quicker than Erik liked, but watching the horrified reactions of the people to their liquefied flesh never got old.

  Four months. Every day, at least one of the people did something to draw his attention. Acted tough on a street corner. Dressed fancy. Talked too loud. Littered. Tried to use expired coupons at the checkout line. Walked alone at night. Smiled at him.

  Unfortunately, he was too busy playing choir boy to take care of business. The religion of Deispite somehow managed to intertwine his favorite things with the biggest flaws of the people. Torture and murder were permitted; scrutiny and intimidation outright encouraged. But then there were the rules. Arbitrary ordinances for everything.

  Of course, that was hardly a surprise when the religion itself was built on hatred of the Creator and all existence. Erik thought it was the first religion of the people to embrace their deepest secret. He had known for a long time what these pathetic creatures thought of their lives. They hated themselves, their world, and the grand entity who had made it all. At least the people of the Church admitted they hated existence. Their nihilistic attempts to rise above their self-hatred were more amusing than annoying. For now. Once he no longer needed them to hunt Hess, that might change.

  Erik wore an army surplus jacket with his current last name, Wilson, embroidered onto the fabric above his chest pocket. The uniform, plus the high rate of Investigators with a military background, caused a lot of people to assume he had served. Some of his fellow deputies didn't care for his presumption, but none of them had bothered him since the first called him out. Apparently, even the toughest guys on the investigation team didn't like someone stalking their family members.

  People from soft societies never pushed him far. At some level, they sensed that he was willing to go much further in pursuit of vengeance than they would dare dream. It freaked them out a little when their posturing failed to impact him.

  He met up with another deputy investigator on his way into the Church building. The woman nodded to him. “Any idea what this meeting is about?”

  “I heard someone from the regional office was here,” Erik said.

  “Great. Another lecture on proper behavior.”

  The two of them entered the gathering hall and sat in separate pews. Other deputies filed into the room. Then, in order of seniority, they were called from the room. Erik settled in to wait, displaying the dignified mannerisms expected from a member of the Opposition.

  The fifteen deputies in front of him left one by one until he was the only person in the room. Then the secretary appeared to summon him. Erik followed her down the hall. “They doing staff reviews or something?”

  “Something,” the secretary said, cradling one hand.

  “You injured?” he asked.

  “Just a scratch. Don't worry about it.” She opened the door to the conference room and waited for him to enter. The door closed behind him.

  Erik walked forward and extended his hand towards the man he didn't recognize. “Hello, sir. My name is Fran Wilson.”

  “A pleasure, deputy. I am Lieutenant Investigator Edwin. I see from your record that you've been here a few months.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Edwin was thirty at most, but held himself erect with rigid professionalism. “You reported your parents as suspicious individuals and they were later executed for the crime of worship. Since then, you have become a cornerstone of the congregation. If I was uncharitable, I might wonder if you sold your parents out for your own gain.”

  “Their betrayal deeply hurt me, sir. I choose to honor their memory by hunting down those who perverted them.”

  “You honor their memory, deputy?”

  “Chapter five, paragraph forty six: 'There is good in all people commensurate with the level that they reject the Demiurge.' My parents never indoctrinated me in their faith. I owe them my purity of spirit.”

  “Quoting the Book impresses simple people, deputy. I am intelligent enough to know that anyone sufficiently motivated can twist isolated passages to support any course of action.”

  Erik fought down a snarl before it could reach his face. “Yes, sir.”

  “Hold out your hand, deputy.”

  When Erik complied, the Lieutenant Investigator pulled his belt knife and sliced Erik's hand open. Startled, Erik pulled his hand to his chest and turned to the door. The Investigator and one of the senior deputies stood there, tasers in hand. Erik licked his lips. “Are you going to kill me?”

  The Lieutenant Investigator gestured impatiently at Erik's hand. “Show it to me.”

  “What?”

  “Your hand. Show it to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the Church has an Agent of the Demiurge in custody. We learned a fascinating lesson from him. Agents don't retain injury. Now show me your hand, deputy.”

  Erik spun to the door. He lifted his hands into a boxer's pose, distracting the eyes of his adversaries, then kicked the Investigator's groin, pivoted, and kicked again at the other deputy's knee.

  He danced back to give himself space. Using the pause in action, Erik ripped a network cable free and wrapped it in each hand to create a rudimentary garrote.

  The thunderous report reached his ears at the same time a stab of pain struck his chest. Erik's eyes registered the Lieutenant Inspector holding a handgun, then darted down to behold the bloody patch sitting center left on his chest. Based on the rapid growth of the red shirt stain, either his pulmonary, aorta, or heart itself had a giant hole in it.

  Erik tried to charge his adversary, but his body refused to work right. While he liked to think himself immune to psychological shock, the rapid drop in blood pressure had done the deed. He collapsed to the ground.

  The Lieutenant Inspector's face radiated zeal like an oven. “I got you, hated one. And you are going to suffer for what your master has done. I will make sure of it.”

  Chapter 8 – Hess / Iteration 145

  Hess bound the Observer's body to a support pole in his basement using his belt collection. One belt looped around her waist to hold her snug against the pole. Another did the same for her feet. Hess used the cloth belt of a bathrobe to tie
her bony wrists together behind her back.

  When the Observer's neck mended, her pale eyes blinked and her emaciated form tugged against the restraints. Hess studied the figure, watching for any telltale quirks. Who was it? He wasn't sure what he would do if this was Ingrid or Erik. Torture wasn't something he had ever done. He preferred to keep that particular activity on the never ever list. But killing an Observer wasn't possible. Maybe torture was the only way to deal with his opponents. It might even force a touch of empathy into them. Maybe some torture now would make the next world a better place.

  The waif stared back at him, then blew out a breath. “Hess.”

  He still had no idea who this was. “And you are?”

  “Jerome,” said the woman.

  He had known Jerome for less than an hour, during a time when he was operating at less than his optimum. “Prove it.”

  “I opened the sky for you last Iteration, then you and Elza stayed behind.” The waif raised a brow. “How about letting me go now?”

  Hess removed the bindings. “Didn't it occur to you that I might not react well to an Observer knocking on my door?”

  Jerome sighed. “I didn't even know for sure an Observer lived here.”

  “I thought the Creator gave you a cheat sheet telling you where the rest of us start off every Iteration.”

  “Oh, the Creator did,” Jerome said. “Only those memories are about as reliable as any others this Iteration.”

  “Well, it's nice to know the Creator isn't playing favorites.” Hess gestured towards the stairs. “As much as I'm enjoying your visit, I need to prepare for an important dinner. Could you come back tomorrow?”

  Jerome shook her head. “We have an emergency situation.”

  “Is the Church after you?”

  Her eyes grew distant. “Worse. I think we've splintered the Creator.”

  Chapter 9 - Erik / Iteration 2