by Brian Blose
“Of course not.”
She snuggled close to him. “You promised to answer my questions.”
“With the full truth,” he added.
“Tell me about your sister.”
“I never had a sister. That was just a story I made up so the people of your village would trust me.”
“You tricked them!” Her tone was halfway between outrage and awe.
“Wasn't very hard.”
Beeta squeezed him tight. “Tell me about your mother, then.”
For a moment, he hesitated. “Never had a mother.”
“Did she die giving birth?”
He reached for his walking stick, then pulled off the cap to reveal its point. “I was not born. I am not a creature of blood and bone like your people. Watch.”
The half-moon provided just enough light to make out the widening of her eyes when he pushed the weapon's point into a readily accessible surface vein of his arm. Blood flowed freely. “Touch it,” he commanded.
When she hesitated, Mott seized one of her hands and forced it into the flow of warm, dark liquid. She stared at the moisture on her hands, face unreadable.
“Watch it vanish.” Soon enough, it did. One moment his blood covered her hand and dripped from his arm. The next moment it did not. There was no wound on his arm. Not even a scar. As if the injury had never existed.
Beeta touched his healed arm. “How is this?”
“I will tell you a great secret, Beeta, because we are companions now.”
“Please tell me.”
“Someone made this world. A magnificent being. The Creator sent me into the world to watch it. I never had a mother. When the world was made, I looked the same as I do today.”
She frowned in thought. “But why?”
“You got to be a bit more specific, Beeta. Why what?”
“Why make a world?”
“Because It could. Because something beats an eternity of nothing. Because this world is amazing, even if the people bore me to tears.”
“Did the Creator make the people, too?”
“If something exists, then the Creator made it.”
“Even me?”
“Sure.” Though considering the world was over a hundred years old, the Creator hadn't made Beeta directly. But the creatures of this world wouldn't care about such fine details. “Would you believe there was another world before this one? It was very different. People didn't have villages and rules. Instead there were tribes and power.
“I don't think I have much influence over the Creator, but I would love to see the two kinds of worlds mixed together. Tribes would raid villages. Villages would have to fight back. And I have no idea what would happen from there. But I'm sure it would be a lot of fun.”
Beeta remained silent so long that he thought she slept when suddenly she spoke again. “But why make anything? I don't get it.”
“Because creation is more glorious than the most pleasing song or the most beautiful weaving. You should be grateful. You would never have existed otherwise. Think about that. Would you rather not exist?”
She drew in an unsteady breath. “I tried to make myself die.”
“Don't believe your own lies, Beeta. You like the attention. Every time you threatened to harm yourself, you got to be special. You got to have power. People let you stay in from work. I know the games you play and I know the reasons behind them. You want to live as much as anyone else.”
“I don't.”
“Really?” He held out his walking stick. “If you want to end your life so bad, then go ahead and do it. I won't stop you.”
Beeta took the walking stick and held it to her arm. Then with a dramatic gesture, she drew the sharp point across her flesh.
“Doesn't look very deep. Are you sure you're serious about this?”
She breathed rapidly several times, then drove the walking stick down into her leg. Mott closed his mouth. Slowly, she pulled the point free of her thigh. There didn't appear to be any blood at first, but then a spurt shot free of the wound.
Mott watched several more pulses escape the wound. “Do you realize your wounds won't go away like mine did?”
“I know,” she said. “And my family isn't around to stop me this time.”
“That's right. They're not here to stop you. That wound will kill you if it's not treated soon.”
Beeta remained still.
“You have to ask for my help.”
Several minutes passed in silence.
“I'm not the fools of your village, Beeta. I won't let you manipulate me. If you want to live, you're going to have to ask me to help you.”
“I just wish I didn't have to hurt my mother,” she whispered. “Better if I was never born than to hurt her like this. Your Creator never should have made me.”
“Do not insult the Creator.”
There was no response.
“Beg for your life, Beeta.”
When he felt at her neck, there was still a faint heartbeat, but the wound on her leg now bled at the barest trickle. Her eyes blinked and then focused on him.
“Why create a world like this?”
Mott stared at her still form until morning, then returned to the village. He found Beeta's mother and killed her in front of the elders with his bare hands. Then he killed the elders.
The men of the village managed to wrestle him to the ground and smash his head with rocks before he could do much more, but he returned to life long before they could put him beneath the ground. More died. They managed to kill him again. When he came back to life next, the people of the village were gone, their homes abandoned.
Cowards, all of them.
Mott burnt down the village, then took his belongings and walked into the wilderness. She had despised existence itself. That was an important observation. Essential, even. The Creator needed to know the ugly truth of the pathetic creatures.
Chapter 22 – Hess / Iteration 145
Hess drove the lead truck with Jerome riding shotgun. Visible in the rear-view mirror was the truck carrying San and Drake. They went to the western edge of the Church's property, which was primarily parks, gardens, and playgrounds separated from the surrounding city by nothing more imposing than guard rails.
They parked the trucks in a side alley, strapped rucksacks firmly to themselves, pushed the quads to the edge of Church property, lifted them one at a time over the guard rail, then started the engines and drove off through the wooded nature reserve.
For thirty minutes, Hess led his crew on an off road adventure, navigating around thickets, through creeks, and past a dozen other obstacles until they arrived at the chain-link fence that separated the main campus of the Church from its park.
There, Hess had them cut their engines and went forward alone to cut an ATV-sized hole in the fence with a pair of bolt cutters. Then they waited for Elza's call, using the tree line as cover.
Drake spent the time muttering to himself. San practiced drawing her handgun. Jerome peered in every direction with her large eyes. Hess sat cross-legged on the ground, phone held in his lap.
It took half an hour for the phone to ring.
“The nuke is set,” Elza said in greeting. “Speed dial one on your phone to detonate it. There is no way to predict how much of a bang we will get from it, so try not to rely on it too much. As far as distracting the authorities is concerned, I'm having mixed results.
“I have been vaporizing meth in the open air market. A few fights have broken out and at least one couple is having intercourse in public. Nothing that warrants serious attention from emergency responders. Fortunately, I managed to convince a few people that agents are lurking in the market.”
Hess clenched his jaw. “You convinced the people how?”
“I severed my arm and threw it into a crowd of people,” Elza said.
“So now you're running from a mob?”
“Hiding. And most of the mob is stoned.”
“Elza . . . .”
�
�It was the best I could do under the circumstances. I brought an acetylene tank from our garage, so I will be able to burn down the warehouse I'm in if they find me. I'll be fine. You have to focus on your main objective for now.”
“We'll discuss this back at the garage,” Hess said.
“Back at the garage,” Elza echoed, an odd catch to her voice.
“Tell me the truth. Do I need to scrub this mission to come after you?”
“No,” Elza said. “I may be improvising, but things are under control.”
Hess released his breath. “Good. See you soon.”
“Goodbye.” Elza hung up.
San cleared her throat. “Are we good to go?”
“It's on,” Hess said, looking at the three Observers with him. “Do not open fire before I do. Riding ATV's on the secure part of the Church's campus is trespassing and rates sending a few patrols after us. The second we start shooting, orders will go out to lock everything down and outside reinforcements will be brought in to help neutralize us.
“When bullets start flying, keep your heads down. We don't have time to die and resurrect. Time is everything in this operation. If you have to run through covering fire, cover your head with your arms and sprint. Don't stop if you take hits. And when they start nailing us with cover fire, that's when we toss our bombs.”
Every eye widened at his speech. Apparently, this was the moment his audience realized on a visceral level that they were going to war. Hess smiled. “If you start to panic, I want you to remember one thing. This is what I do best.”
While the others were still mounting up on their ATV's, Hess rode down the hill and through the hole he had cut, then coasted towards the path he knew from maps, studying terrain he had committed to memory. The others were not an ideal team for this mission. Drake lived in constant fear. San lacked a functional sense of self-preservation. Jerome inhabited an emaciated form ill suited to conflict.
If he could have traded any of the three for Elza, he would have. But Elza was the only one he could trust to do her part unsupervised. Indeed, she would handle her particular task better than he could have.
He glanced over his shoulder to verify there were three ATV's tailing him, then shifted gears with a tap of his foot and twisted the throttle. They sailed past barracks housing and administrative buildings, drawing curious stares from the few Church employees outside at mid-morning.
Stares are fine, Hess thought. Scowls are the dangerous reaction.
Due to a combination of training and self-selection bias, soldiers as a group were more likely to report suspicious activity. However, most of the individuals they passed were off duty and busy with their own activities. And there was no such thing as an anonymous tip in the Church. If you called in a report, there would be paperwork. Hopefully inconvenience outweighed concern in the minds of their witnesses.
Hess led his group past an armory and glided to a stop beside the row of concrete jersey barriers forming a barrier between the secure region of the Church campus and the ultra-secure sanctum where rogue Agents were held in a punishment complex. He dismounted and waved Drake forward. The two of them lifted the front end of each ATV and fed the machines over the makeshift wall, moving with swift motions.
“What am I doing?” Drake muttered to himself. “Stupid, stupid!”
Hess herded his group over the jersey barriers, saw them remounted, then paused. “We go fast now. Remember, I fire the first shot.”
When he looked over his shoulder, Hess saw concerned faces peeking out of the armory. If they hadn't already been reported as intruders, they would be now. No one had reason to suspect they carried weapons, but soon they would demonstrate otherwise.
Hess drove at the compound full throttle, crossing the immaculately groomed yard and heading straight for the side door of the classically architected building. There were shouts in the distance as they skidded to a stop near the outer row of white colonnades.
He pulled free one of his pipe bombs, flipped on a switch that had once belonged to a remote controlled car, used a roll of duct tape to secure the device to the heavy metal door between the door handle and the deadbolt, then dashed back to hide behind a column. Hess dragged Jerome behind cover before powering on the remote control in his hand and turning the toy's steering wheel.
There was a thump from the explosion and a squeal of twisting metal. Dark smoke drifted past the columns. Hess tucked away the remote control and pulled his nine millimeter. The others were still standing in place when Hess kicked open the remnants of the shattered door. He ducked to the side and surveyed the hall inside for two seconds.
“Get the gas,” Hess said.
“We got to get out of here,” Drake said.
Hess pushed Drake towards his ATV. “I told you to get the gas. The door leads to a tight side corridor. It's a perfect choke point.” When Drake still hesitated, Hess put his finger in Drake's face. “You can grab the gas cylinders or you can discover how I handle deserters. Move.”
While Drake moved to detach the cylinders from their ATV's, Hess stationed San inside the building, instructing her to assume a prone position with a rifle. He directed Jerome to guard the approach from behind the colonnades, telling her to lay down cover fire if she saw anyone.
Meanwhile, Hess stood ready with handgun cradled in the palms of both hands, holding it low to conserve his arm strength. Marching around with your hands held at shoulder level like a movie character clearing a building was a good way to fatigue your muscles. And even if the strain wasn't noticeable, it would impact accuracy. The key was to hold low, stay relaxed, and be ready to snap the weapon into position.
Before Drake finished with the final tank, a security team consisting of three men on a golf cart arrived. Hess stepped out of cover, aligned his sights on the driver, breathed out halfway, and gently squeezed the trigger until the weapon jumped in his hands. He slipped behind cover, noting that the driver was no longer inside his vehicle and that the golf cart had stopped moving.
Now, while they are still gathering their wits, he thought. Hess peeked around the column he was using as cover and shot the man leaning over his downed comrade. The final man returned covering fire until Hess put two bullets into the golf cart. As he'd hoped, the sound of metal plinking convinced the man to seek better cover.
Drake was pulling the final tank through the door, so Hess followed him inside with Jerome. “Masks on,” Hess said. When everyone had complied, he twisted open the valve on one of the tanks.
“Do you think the guards will have masks?” San asked.
“Doesn't matter,” Hess said. “Standard filters don't remove chlorine.”
He handed the twelve gauge shotgun to Drake. He'd set a modified choke on it and loaded buckshot. Drake didn't have the marksmanship to merit using slugs, so the compromise was sacrificing some kill power for a more forgiving spread. “Shoot for the head,” he said. “Everyone else aim for center mass.”
Hess opened the valve on a second tank, then toppled it onto its side and rolled it down the hall before them. With hand signals, he sent Jerome and Drake to opposite walls and moved San to the rear of their formation.
They jogged down the hall, kicking the canister ahead of them. At every door, they stopped to check the handle. If the door opened, they cleared the room. If not, they moved on. The first three open doors led to unoccupied rooms. They left the cylinder of chlorine to vent at the first intersection they passed.
The fourth door opened on panicked office staff. Jerome and Drake handled them with a volley of wild gunfire. Obedient to their training, they checked each body to verify no one had survived before returning to the hall. Hess scowled at the goofy exultation on Drake's face, but refrained from saying anything more than a command to reload.
Twice they caught someone in the halls and gunned them down. Three more times they cleared an occupied room. Hess let Jerome and Drake handle the rooms. Those two needed a boost to their confidence and he didn't care to kill civilians
himself.
At the end of the hall a staircase led down to an underground level. They approached cautiously and peered into the open chamber beneath them. Hess recognized a wall of people and started to duck back.
The crack of a volley of gunfire reached him just before the space around him erupted with ricochets and shrapnel. Hess touched a hand to a sting on his scalp and it came away moist. Beside him, Jerome lay in a puddle of blood, ominously still. Drake scrambled back on all fours, shotgun abandoned.
San seized his shoulder. “Behind us, Hess! They're coming down the hall behind us! What do we do?”
As the seconds ticked by, the wound on his scalp became harder to ignore. It burned with a fierce intensity and drizzled blood down his forehead to run into his eyes. Hess shook his head, trying to bring things back into focus.
“Hess, hon, we need you now. Right now,” San shouted.
Drake's voice cracked. “Shit, San, his skull's showing! Man's useless!”
Hess shook his head again. It would clear in a few minutes. He didn't think he had a few minutes. “Gas cylinders,” Hess said.
“Right,” San said. “Drake, open those cylinders up and roll them back the hall.”
Hess ripped his protective mask from his face to empty his stomach.
“Mask back on, Hess! We're opening the gas.”
“No, wait,” Hess said. He shook his head again. “Stop, San!”
“We have to do it now,” she said.
“Cylinders down the steps. Bombs behind us.” He paused to vomit once more. When he managed to gasp a messy breath, he continued. “Gas will stay down there and stop pursuit.”
“Right. Good thinking, Hess. Now put on your mask.”
Hess collapsed onto his side. For moments, there was nothing but the nauseating sense of vertigo. Then someone pressed a mask to his face, making it harder to breathe. Hess floated in a daze, barely aware of explosions happening nearby. Gunshots followed.
Coughing came from next to him. “Did I die?”
“Jerome! Get your gun! Cover fire now!”
