by Brian Blose
He took the name Torrik as he entered the village. Torrik. The name of a man who died in the previous world when he tripped over his own feet and smacked his head into a rock. That Torrik had become a joke in his tribe for suffering such an ignominious death. It was a good joke, though the people of this world didn't have the proper constitution to appreciate it.
Torrik ignored the guest pavilion to first walk to the edge of the water. This was not a sea like he had encountered in the previous world. This water was known to be both traversable and safe to drink. It lapped at the shoreline with regular waves, but the people stared at him in perplexion when he asked if it rose and fell in tides.
Still, such a large body of water drew his eyes as surely as the ground pulled his feet to it. Torrik breathed the pungent air and stared at the distant horizon. It appeared to go on forever, a little slice of eternity carved from water, changing every moment with swift movements, blues and grays and greens mingling with the reds and yellows of a setting sun in a stunning tableau. The world was undeniably beautiful. A true masterpiece. If no one else could appreciate that fact, he could.
And he served the Creator who had made all of it.
When the light faded, Torrik strolled back towards the guest pavilion. The villagers had already gathered for their evening meal in the open square at its side, and they smiled as he joined them. A woman approached with a bowl of soup that bore the unmistakable scent of fish, which Torrik had encountered far too rarely in this plant-eating world.
He accepted the bowl with a genuine smile. “Thank you, friend.”
The woman bowed graciously. All around him, people watched with bright eyes. “You are very welcome to food and shelter while you stay among us. We are a curious folk, however, and you must be prepared for us to harass you for what stories you have.”
Torrik slurped his soup; closed his eyes to savor the richness of it. He hunted from time to time when his appetite for hearty fare overcame his desire to blend with the locals. But the meat of land animals was one flavor and the flesh of sea animals a completely different one.
“I have many stories, friend. But first, could you tell me if a White Man passed through here recently? I am seeking a friend of mine, and I believe he came this way.”
The woman bobbed her head. “He is here with us now. Abner, come here now and sit with your friend!”
When the white man appeared from the crowd of brown-skinned people, Torrik licked his lips. He had hoped their meeting would occur away from the eyes of people, somewhere they could speak freely. But they would be able to talk around their secrets without revealing themselves to the villagers. Unless the meeting turned out less friendly than he hoped. In which case, he had other concerns.
The man was balding, overweight, and squinted at everything in the manner of those with weak eyes. When the man had an opportunity to properly assess Torrik, he folded his arms. “I don't know this man.”
Torrik hesitated. “I think we are watching things for the same person.”
“Watching things? What are you talking about? I spend all my time fishing. Walked nearly the whole way around the lake, I reckon. Stop a few days every village I come to. Maybe you met me in some village, but I meet lots of people. I don't know you.”
Everything about the white man was wrong. His irritable nature, his ignorance, the way he appeared oblivious to everything happening around him. Torrik's eyes assessed the man before him with the clinical efficiency of an Observer. This man Abner was not Hess.
In one of the villages he had passed through, he had begun to follow the trail of the wrong White Man. To the mindless creatures of the villages, there might not be much difference between one pale stranger and another. But the gulf could not have been larger.
“This is not the white man I am seeking,” Torrik said. “My friend is . . . more distinguished than this fisherman.”
Abner screwed his face up. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean my words to be an insult. You have wasted my time.” Torrik placed one hand on the knob of his walking stick and waited for the pale stranger to make a move.
Fool he may have been, but the white man had a functional sense of self preservation. After an awkward pause, he vanished back into the crowd without another word. Torrik finished his bowl of fish soup and left the village. He had lost the trail of the other Observers.
But not for long. Now that he knew they existed, the world was not large enough to prevent him from finding them.
Chapter 10 – Hess / Iteration 145
Elza hadn't answered his calls, so when she arrived with her parents, she froze at the sight of Jerome. “Who is this?”
Hess snapped his fingers impatiently at Jerome. “I hired Lilly to prepare dinner. Her father is Jerome. You remember Jerome, right?”
The two women exchanged the slightest of nods. “Of course I remember Jerome,” Elza said.
“I admire your charity,” Elza's father said, “but perhaps you should have the woman mow your lawn instead of letting her around food.”
“Walter!”
“Oh, don't lecture me, Yolanda. I have given plenty to the pale community. And my point is valid. Even if you trust this woman not to eat the food she's paid to serve, she hardly looks the type to know fine dining.”
Hess forced a smile. “I understand your concerns, Walter,” he said. “But I know her father to be a tireless worker. Lilly's appearance is due to a genetic condition.”
Walter chuckled. “Would that happen to be a predilection for heroin?”
“Her body doesn't produce an enzyme required to digest starches.” Hess flashed a big smile. “But some people have a predilection for mischaracterizing others based on appearance.”
“I keep a reliable chef on retainer,” Walter said. “I don't recall his name at the moment, but he works at the Iris. Excellent chef. If I'd known you were so desperate, I would have financed your dinner.”
Yolanda shot a stern glare at her husband at the same moment that Elza fixed her level gaze on Hess. He cleared his throat. “Tell me, Walter, what is it you do with all your free time?”
“I'm a gentleman, Jed. In addition to helping unapologetic social climbers gain connections, I do quite a bit of charity work.”
Yolanda nudged her husband with an elbow to the ribs, which managed to silence him. While Walter was old money, Yolanda came from ancient money and by all accounts could not abide boorish behavior. She smiled at Hess. “Everything smells delicious. We have been looking forward to sitting down with you for quite some time now. Dear Theora has never been so enamored of a man as she is of you.”
The conversation veered off into the territory of who was marrying whom, who had recently born a child, and who was pursuing elected office. Jerome served them sparkling wine while they casually chatted about the people they knew, dropping names with careless abandon.
When they moved to the table a quarter of an hour later, Yolanda brought up the annual picnic sponsored by the congregation and suggested everyone present volunteer for the planning committee. The meal went down well, with Walter restraining himself to a single backhanded compliment, noting that hiring a pale-skinned woman to cook a poorer cut of meat was wise.
Hess leaned over to tap Elza's elbow. Dessert special for you.
Her quizzical expression morphed into delight when Jerome set their bowls before them. Walter frowned at the pudding. “What is it?”
“Dessert.”
“What is it made from?”
“Bananas.”
Walter poked his spoon at it. “What did your pale cook do with the bananas?”
“Actually,” Hess said, “I made this course myself.”
Yolanda lifted her spoon to him in salute. “Very impressive, Jed. I have always considered cooking akin to art.”
“What did you do to the poor bananas?”
“I froze them, pureed them, then added vanilla and hazelnut milk.”
Walter shook his head. “Sou
nds rather unappetizing.”
Hess shrugged. “If you don't care to try it, you could pass your bowl to Theora. She seems to like it.”
Elza gave him the first unguarded smile he had seen from her since the world began. Hess settled back into his seat and savored the moment.
Her parents stayed another fifteen minutes, then departed for home after Elza indicated she intended to stay. The moment the door closed behind them, Elza spun on him. “What is the fourth ingredient?”
“Elza, I don't know what you're talking about.”
She advanced on him. “Bananas, vanilla extract, hazelnut milk, and what else? Don't tell me there isn't another ingredient. I've tried replicating your recipe a hundred times at least.”
“It's an eternal mystery,” he said. “Only I know the secret.”
“You had better tell me.”
“I'm the only one who can make my banana pudding.”
Elza spun to Jerome. “Do you know?”
The emaciated woman folded her arms. “I do not. There are more important things to discuss at the moment, at any rate.”
“I'm sure your issue, whatever it is, can wait,” she said on her way into the kitchen.
Jerome's deep-set eyes glowed with frustration. “Damn it, Hess. We can't afford to operate on our usual timelines. We're no longer dealing with eternity.”
Hess patted Jerome's shoulder gently, feeling the sharp outlines of bird-like bones beneath parchment-thin skin. He couldn't imagine what inhabiting such a body would be like. “You told me your theory that our conflict gave the Creator a case of split personality. Even if that is possible, it isn't something we are in a position to immediately fix.”
The sound of cupboards slamming came from the kitchen. Hess sighed. “She's going to tear apart the kitchen, upend my trash, and then refuse to clean up.”
Jerome walked into the kitchen and raised her voice. “I'm conducting a vote. The Creator wants to know if the Observers should die at the end of this Iteration.”
Chapter 11 – Erik / Iteration 145
He screamed and wept, reacting to the pain and exhaustion and fear. The Punishers of the Church always went about their job with fervor, utterly convinced they were taking their vengeance upon the individual responsible for their brother's death in a car accident, their aunt's cancer prognosis, their girlfriend's infidelity, their bad credit rating, and the fact that they stubbed their toe getting out of bed that morning.
They came in teams of three, rotating often so that whoever worked on him was always fresh. The teams themselves switched out several times a day. The Punisher on duty now, a hulking brute complete with lopsided nose and knife scars, beat Erik with a length of cast iron pipe. Suspended from the ceiling by manacles clasped to his wrists and chained to the floor by his ankles, Erik hung taught as a piano wire. Each time the pipe struck, his body shifted the limited extent possible, causing his bindings to dig into the flesh of his extremities.
His ribs shattered time and again only to reform. The time span between damage and repair was often long enough that the brute could knock free fragments of bones and organs to litter the cold cement floor. When the egg timer rang to announce the end of another fifteen minute stretch, the brute tossed the pipe aside and paused to catch his breath.
Erik cried, unashamed, as the pain continued. Bit by bit, it lessened as injuries vanished. The team began to gather their implements, so they must be done with their shift. When the last of the damage done to his body evaporated, leaving him whole again, Erik began to laugh.
“You fuckers don't know what you're doing. Might as well be a group of school girls playing dolls.”
The brute rushed forward and punched Erik in the face. After, Erik grinned through the blood pouring from his nose and mouth. He had bared his teeth at the last moment and, judging by the way the brute cradled his hand, damage had been done. Damage that wouldn't disappear in five minutes.
“Aw, does that hurt? Worse than your period, ain't it, princess? Your widdle hand got bit by a scawy Agent.”
The brute firmed up his face and flashed the crazy eyes. “I'm gonna think up new ways to hurt you tonight. Tomorrow I will hear you begging and crying and screaming.”
Erik spat his blood at the brute. “Oh, I react to things. I admit it with no shame. Difference is, I've been here two weeks and I'm still talking shit soon as you losers finish your best work. Put one of you in my place for just an hour and what happens then?
“One of these days, you dick-heads are going to slip up, and I will leave an impression on every one of you I cross that day. You will never be able to say the same to me. There ain't a mark on my body, girls, and my mind is fucking dandy. I'll bet this whole torture experience messes with you three more than it does with me.
“See, I am better than you pathetic creatures in every way. You think the Creator hates you? Don't flatter yourselves. Your whole world is an idle amusement. None of you deserve hatred. You should feel honored you get mild curiosity.”
The brute came closer, wearing the crazy eyes again. “You'll pay.”
“I know, cupcake. I just don't care.” Erik felt his nose reform. “I once flayed the skin from a man's abdomen and made him look at his organs. Freaked. Him. Out. He begged me to kill him. I offered to stitch his skin back together and release him, but he insisted on immediate death. He was a big guy like you. Did the same bit with the clenched jaw and wide eyes. Thought because he showed alpha male body language that he was something special. He wasn't. Guy begged to die just from seeing his insides. Wasn't even in much pain.
“I did the same thing to a six year old girl. She begged for me to let her go. I didn't even offer to stitch her up. Blew my mind that she was braver than the tough guy. I had to actually start pulling the organs out before she requested the easy way out.”
Erik studied the queasy expression on the face of the brute. “Does the torture of children bother you? It's not much different, really. Smaller cuts, so if anything it's easier. You have to be diligent for shock, though. Their systems just aren't as robust as ours.”
The brute turned away.
“You got a daughter? Niece? Little sister?”
The brute whirled and punched in a fluid motion. Erik was ready and managed to open his jaw, twist his neck, and bite down as the fist made contact, effectively using his teeth to fillet the flesh of the fingers from bone. Spitting shattered teeth, Erik yelled at the brute who mutely stared at his mutilated hand. “Scared now? Imagine what I'll do when I'm free!”
After the team left the room, Erik closed his eyes. The sleep deprivation bothered him more than the torture. Physical damage and pain were transient. Sleep debt was constant. The round-the-clock torture made catching shut eye a bit problematic, so he did his best to catch a few minutes of rest whenever possible.
“That doesn't look terribly comfortable.”
Erik opened his eyes to find an ugly woman in the room. Her square head sat atop a solid body. If a man had possessed the same build, Erik would have said he looked like a lumberjack. On a woman, the result was less flattering. “Neither does your face,” he said. “Where's the rest of your team? Or do you want to hit me all by yourself to take out all the rage you feel at the Creator for making you so damn ugly?”
The woman studied him. Not with the inhuman efficiency of an Observer with thousands of lifetimes' worth of experience, but with the slow studiousness of a woman who wanted to understand something. “You're very different from the other Observer.”
“Oh, I'm unique, all right.” Erik shook his head to clear it. She hadn't called him an Agent, but an Observer. This woman wasn't one of the Punishers. “You the good cop to their bad cop? I suppose the deal is I talk to you and things get better for me?”
“You might consider it a deal of sorts. Talk to me for an hour every day and that will be an hour less for them to hurt you. That is the only thing I can offer.”
Erik grunted. “Do I have to tell the truth?”
> “You have to convince me our sessions provide value.”
“So I have to make you think I tell the truth?”
“We both know you will lie as much as you think possible. I don't want to play games with you. I'm a theologian, not an interrogator. My name is Simone Killian. Have you heard of me?”
Simone Killian was famous. Descended from the First Opposer. Aunt of the current Premier. Professor Emeritus of Theology at the national seminary. Author of the Angolan translation of the Book of Grievances. Writer of half a dozen bestsellers describing how words and traditions from hundreds of years in the past applied perfectly to the modern age.
“Anything you remember prior to four months ago never happened,” Erik said. “You're famous for a back story the Creator gave you. Kinda ironic if you think about it. Your whole deal is opposing the Creator, but you owe the Creator everything you are – even your opposition.”
“That's an ancient argument,” she said. “The apologetics of antiquity responded by noting that if the Demiurge caused the Opposition, then that proves the thing hates itself.”
Erik recoiled as far as his bindings would allow. “What? That's ridiculous! Look around you. This world is glorious. Every complaint you creatures make can be summed up as 'I want everything my way all the time or the world ain't fair.' Guess what, sister. There are over three billion of you turds wishing to be king of this world. That's something that can't ever work out for more than one person. The only conceivable world that your religion could accept has a population of uno. Sounds fucking boring to me.”
Simone placed a hand to her cheek. “By my dignity, you're right! Humans owe everything to the Creator and need to start worshiping immediately! What fools we have been!”
Erik glared at her. “Is that how the country's leading theologian answers a question about a logical fallacy?”
“I was answering your childish outburst on the same level. I always respond in kind to any argument. Logic meets logic. Emotion meets emotion. Authority meets authority. I feel that doing otherwise puts me at a disadvantage.” Simone squinted at him. “Do you truly believe we demand some form of paradise? I mistook that as a straw man argument meant to belittle me, but now I think you were serious.”
