by Brian Blose
She folded her massive arms across her chest. “You claim that the world began four months ago. Let's accept that assertion for the purpose of our discussion. At the moment of creation, there were tens of millions of people dying of terminal diseases. And millions more in jail for crimes that never truly happened. I know men crippled in the service of this country and children born with defects. None of this had to be. The Creator chose to make those people suffer.”
Erik smirked. “People start wars all the time. They die of drug overdoses and car accidents and all sorts of self-inflicted fates. Why wouldn't the Creator give the world a matching back story?”
“There's a very simple counter example. Disease. Why create a world filled with so many harmful microbes? There can be no benevolent purpose to it.”
“Benevolent?” Erik laughed. “So that's where your major malfunction happened. I thought we already established it's impossible for everyone to live a magically fulfilled life.”
“Not creating dysentery doesn't qualify as magic wish fulfillment.”
“Bacteria evolve rapidly,” Erik said. “Sooner or later a bug would come along that did horrible things. Would be awful suspicious if that event was unique in the history of the world. The Creator kept the back story realistic.”
“And why are bacteria necessary at all? Couldn't your Creator build a world without microbes?”
Erik rolled his eyes. “Let's cut through the bullshit. You still think the world should be built to make you happy.”
“Of course not. Just better suited to us.”
“Right. To make all of you collectively happier.”
“I don't care to argue the semantics.”
“Been there, done that.”
Simone's heavy brow drew down. “Excuse me?”
“This ain't the first world, tubby. There were plenty before this one. A couple of those matched your pretty little picture of paradise. No war, hardly any disease, never any starvation.”
“Then your Creator chose to make this one to spite us.”
“Shit, sister, the Creator did you a kindness.” Erik used his chin to gesture at a couple of torture implements the previous team hadn't taken with them. “You may have heard that I'm in the business myself.”
“I've read that you claim to be superior at inflicting pain.”
“I'm a fucking artist. In comparison, your boys are nothing more than monkeys smearing their shit on the wall.”
“Your point?”
“I use torture to gauge how strongly people wish to live. The quicker they ask for death, the less they value their lives. With me so far?”
Simone squinted again, silently studying him.
“I'll assume I haven't lost you yet. My point in explaining my test method is that the empirical evidence ain't in your favor. People living in a paradise will embrace death to avoid a hang-nail. But take some miserable smuck from a world like this and you need to put in a bit of effort to get the same result. And then there are the crazy worlds. The people from one of those require serious convincing.
“You seeing my point yet? Your thought experiment don't match the data. People aren't happiest in worlds full of roses and bubblegum. They need contrast. A little tragedy to bring out the sweetness.”
She shook her head. “I reject your 'test'.”
“Well, you would know best, considering you have hundreds of thousands of years of life experience. Wait a minute. That's me. You're only four months old.”
“Did it ever occur to you that people from better worlds might not have the coping mechanisms to deal with your hideous experiments?”
“What the hell is a coping mechanism in the first place? A way to survive trauma. Why don't supposedly happy people develop these wonderful coping skills when they have need of them? You know, like all the other people do all the time?”
“Coping skills are developed over time. You can't throw someone who has never been challenged into a trial and expect a miracle.”
Erik sighed. “You have no idea what you're talking about.”
“Belittling me doesn't make my argument wrong.”
“Coping mechanisms pop up fully formed. A mind pushed past its limits invents something to keep the urge for self-destruction at bay. I've played with enough people to know the process more intimately than you know the contours of your vibrator. People subconsciously decide when their lives are worth protecting with psychological barriers. It's all choice.”
Simone's eyes bored into him. “Do not insult me again.”
“You gonna hit me if I do? Didn't work out too well for the last guy.”
“I won't come back for tomorrow's conversation. You represent the antithesis of everything I stand for, yet I am willing to treat you with dignity. All I ask in return is for a modicum of respect. I can ignore your base language, but the crude jokes at my expense end or our association ends.”
“Mutual respect? I'm hanging naked from the ceiling after weeks of excruciating torture and you take issue with colorful language? This is exactly the kind of attitude I expect from you people. Everything has to be your way all the time or the world ain't fair.”
Simone folded her arms. “I have nothing to do with your circumstances. I can and do choose to speak to you civilly. In return, I expect the same.”
“Do you blame the Creator for making you an unattractive woman? Is that the source of your personal opposition? You are rich, famous, and powerful, but you hate the Creator cause you ain't pretty enough?”
“Respect,” Simon said.
“Fine. I won't insult your looks or your sex life. If you feel like returning the respect, you could adjust my bindings.”
“Out of the question.”
“Why? Afraid to come closer?”
“I believe your boasts to the Punishers that you will eventually escape. You are far more cunning than I.”
Erik grunted. His eyes drifted closed.
“Do you really plan to sleep through the rest of our interview?”
“Ssssh. I'm mutual respecting.”
“We have another Observer in custody.”
“So I hear.”
“Don't you want to know who it is?”
“Unless his name is Hess, I don't care.”
“This Hess character comes up a lot when I talk to your kind. He's a rebel of sorts, as I understand.”
“He would eat up your blasphemous religion.”
“So one of your own kind hates the Demiurge?”
“Don't flatter yourself, chica. Hess doesn't hate the Creator. He suffers from a messiah complex that interferes with our mission.”
“He tried to improve a world for the benefit of its people and you buried him alive in punishment.”
Erik opened his eyes. “That world didn't need any improving.”
“What about this one?”
“Watch the next sunset. Really watch it. Consider the phenomenon. Hydrogen atoms fuse into helium atoms millions of miles away, release photons to rush through space, diffract in the atmosphere, pass through the lens of your eye to strike your retina, where a series of chemical reactions passes the message to a network of neurons that perceives a fucking sunset. Think about the complexity of that. Marvel at it. Recognize that every moment you exist is unique and will never happen again. Feel the significance of a universe capable of hosting billions just like you, all of them walking around having their own unique moments. You do that, then come tell me you think the Creator shouldn't have brought this world into existence. Explain how much better an empty, unobserved void would be. Try to convince me.”
Simone frowned, then dismissed whatever thought troubled her with a firm shake of her head. “Nothing you say can justify the state of this world.”
“Do you see me cursing the Creator? I've been tortured for two weeks by a religion perfectly designed to catch and torment Observers. A religion made by the Creator, mind you. Likely it will be years of the same before I get my chance to escape. I got legitimate
reasons to get pissy. But I'm not crying foul. Why is that?”
“You tell me.”
“No. You figure out the answer for yourself.”
“Do you want to know the name of the other Observer?”
“Who is it?”
Simone raised her chin. “I want your name first.”
“Erik.”
“I thought as much.”
“Who is it?”
“A man by the name of Ingrid.”
Erik grunted. “Do me a favor? Pass a message along to my good friend. Tell him 'I know it was you who released the prisoner last Iteration'.”
Simone nodded. “I'll let him know that.”
Chapter 12 – Hess / Iteration 145
Hess stared at Jerome. “Die?”
“Well, have our memories erased. It's the same as dying. The Creator will abide by the majority decision of our vote.”
Elza brushed her hair back out of her eyes. “Are we the first ones you've approached?”
“About that,” Jerome said. “I barely found the two of you. If Hess hadn't left messages all over the internet from a device owned by Jed Orlin, I would still be out there looking for you.”
“I thought you knew our identities at the start of every iteration,” Elza said.
Jerome nodded her head so vigorously that her spindly neck looked in danger of snapping. “My head is full of all the usual details. Names, locations, appearances. All of it. But according to my memories, Hess is a white man named Carl Lindenburg and Elza is on the other side of the planet.
“When the Creator added the Church to the history of this world, your identities must have changed. For the first time in my existence, I have a reason to find the eleven of you. And for the first time in my existence, I don't have the means to do so.
“Something is wrong with the Creator. The war between you two and the others has had serious consequences.”
“Wait a minute,” Hess said. “How much of this is knowledge supplied by the Creator and how much is guesses?”
Jerome grimaced. “All I know for sure is my mission and the fact that everything I knew about this world at the moment of creation is wrong.” She stared at Hess with her deep-set eyes. “I think that's enough to know something is wrong.”
Hess crossed his arms. “What is wrong is the fact that Erik gets his rocks off by torturing the people. And the fact that Ingrid feels entitled to punish us. Those two deserve the very worst this world has to offer. I hope the Church of Opposition gets its hands on those two Agents.”
Jerome's jaw dropped. “Why?”
“Because,” Hess snapped, “they are what is wrong with every world. They want suffering to exist. Erik just for the fun of it. Ingrid because of her obsession with consequences. Their spite has sabotaged every world I have ever walked, Jerome. They deserve the enmity of the people.”
For a moment, Jerome was silent. “If that is how you feel, then I don't think the current batch of Observers can be effective any longer. I vote to wipe our memories and end us.”
“What?”
Jerome sagged against the kitchen counter. “The rules provided by the Creator are simple. Everyone gets to vote. There is no changing a vote once cast. A refusal to vote counts in favor of wiping. I must conduct the vote as quickly as possible and open the sky once I have the final vote.”
“And you think we are unfit to Observe because I don't approve of my coworkers?”
Jerome shook her head. “Because you hate them. And they probably hate you. We serve something greater than ourselves, Hess.”
“No,” Hess said, “we serve ourselves.”
“Our consciousnesses join together to form the Creator's. Our memories inform the Creator. But we aren't the Creator any more than your hand is the sum total of you.”
Hess forced a smile. “Thanks for your opinion, Jerome. But we like our lives just fine, so we'll be voting against proposition suicide.”
“I get to make my own choice, Hess.” Elza met his eyes. “And I'm tired.” She looked away. “I vote in favor of ending the Observers.”
Hess stared. He opened his mouth, then shut it when no words came to him. Finally, he stumbled forward to collapse into one of the bar stools in his kitchen. Hess shook his head emphatically and avoided eye contact with the two women.
Jerome cleared her throat. “You despise Erik. Voting to wipe our memories would destroy him. It would let the Observers start over with fresh personalities. Likely the worlds would improve as a result.”
Hess ran a hand through his hair. “So you want to forget us? Forget we ever happened? That doesn't make sense, Elza. Last Iteration you made me promise to never forget you. Now you vote to erase everything we are from existence. Everything we ever were.”
“I am tired, Hess. Eternity is too long.”
“Too long to spend with me?”
Elza turned to look out the window. “You know I love you.”
“Really? Because I just heard you give up on us.”
“I tired of life before we ever met, Hess. Way back in Iteration one. Back then, the only thing that kept me going was a sense of duty. When we ran into each other in Kallig's tribe, you hated the world, but I hated my life.
“It's funny to look back on, but I actually thought I'd seen everything existence had to offer. Then we met and I forgot how miserable I was. For a while. But love can't fix everything.”
Hess struck a fist on the table. “Where the hell is this coming from? Are you still upset about the nuclear war last Iteration?”
Elza grimaced. “No, Hess, that has nothing to do with anything.”
He stabbed a finger at her. “You made me swear to never forget you!”
“Because I couldn't live without you. That's the difference here, Hess. I'm not asking you to live without me. What I want is the same mercy the people are granted every world. I want to cease being.”
“Why?”
Elza stared at him.
“Why, Elza? What possible reason could you have for wanting to die?”
“Didn't you want to die when you were Zack?”
“I wasn't myself.”
“But you remember it. That's how I feel, Hess. Don't you remember what I told you after I abducted you last Iteration?”
Hess hated remembering the five years he had spent suppressing his deep memories, the time he had lived under the identity of Zack Vernon. After he had escaped from Erik, he had gone back to his trailer and encountered Elza. During their initial conversation, after he revealed he wanted to die, she had responded by saying “We don't die, Zack. Not ever. Not even when it's the only thing we want.”
“We were happy,” he said.
Elza's eyes misted. “Happier than I thought possible.”
“I suppose I should thank you for pretending I was more than a distraction.” Hess got to his feet. “On second thought, never mind. None of it matters because we're being killed.”
He slammed the door on his way out of the house.
Chapter 13 - Erik / Iteration 2
He took the name Mott as he entered the village. Mott. The name of a man who had been mauled by a lion and survived . . . for a time. It had been an entertaining, if short, show. He had watched the man named Mott beg for help, then try to drag his mangled body to safety when he realized the only witness intended to do no more than watch.
Mott readied his usual questions. Had they seen a pale man traveling with a beautiful woman? Which of the nearby villages was largest? Had anyone heard talk of someone creating the world?
While trying to find someone to answer his questions, Mott stumbled upon an interesting scene. A dozen women swarmed over one of their number, shrieking a strident chorus of “no, Beeta, no!” as they restrained her. Even as the events unfolded, the village elders emerged from the guest pavilion to make ineffective soothing motions with their hands.
His questions died unasked. Something much more interesting than following cold trails was happening here. Dark memorie
s stirred. A world ago, he had been a shapely woman in the midst of a swarm of men, beaten and taken with wild force. He had taken his vengeance upon each of those men after, striking from the dark and planting evidence to frame their own brothers of the deed.
Even without the benefit of perfect recall, Mott would always remember the feel of those restraining hands stealing his autonomy, turning him into a helpless victim. That had been a poignant lesson in the virtue of strength. Lacking it, your world was one of limitations. The only way to be free of the trappings of weakness was to seize power.
And the easiest power to possess was freedom from morality. Even the most twisted men of the first world had respected some boundaries. Feeding poison berries to a child and posing the corpse in a strong man's tent had caused him to shriek like a young girl. Many times Mott had started forest fires during droughts to destroy entire tribes, though truthfully that had been more for his amusement than a play for power.
Studying the woman at the center of everyone's attention, Mott wondered what she had done. Every village of the second world was similar to a depressing degree. The same traditions and mannerisms and beliefs existed everywhere. It was a pacifist's wet dream. What would cause the villagers to restrain a woman?
Mott leaned against a support beam of the guest pavilion to watch events unfold. The women crowded the one at their center until one of them emerged carrying a bronze knife. Then the level of agitation dropped dramatically.
One of the older women spoke in a clear voice, silencing the rest. “Beeta, you must be strong, girl. Fight this madness. You don't want to bring grief on your mother and your father. Too many people care for you, child.”
The old woman paused after each sentence so that the others could chime in with words of agreement. The object of their attention slowly transitioned from crazed intensity to mellow passivity. Beeta looked defeated. He couldn't tell who she had intended as the target of the knife – herself or one of the others. It was all but impossible to predict what someone under the spell of madness would do, where they might turn their destructive impulses.
