Beyond Redemption

by Michael R. Fletcher

  Aufschlag made a placating gesture. “The truth is . . . we don’t know.”

  “Konig says I won’t be the first man-made god, but I will be the first intentionally man-made god. He used the word ‘designed.’ I didn’t understand what he meant before, but I do now.”

  “It is not with malice,” Aufschlag said softly, unsure if he lied.

  Morgen studied the Chief Scientist. “I know.”

  Thoughts of Morgen’s Ascension left Aufschlag feeling tired, old, and sad. For Morgen to Ascend, he had to die with enough people believing he’d rise again as a god. For two decades Konig had been shaping the Geborene Damonen, and all the people of Selbsthass, for very this purpose. Soon the child must die.

  Why hadn’t I thought this through before bringing my plans to make a god to Konig? He’d been desperate to please his only friend and that desperation had blinded him. Konig took Aufschlag’s plan, saw possibilities the scientist had missed, and twisted it in ways both appalling and stunning.

  Morgen must soon die.

  But healthy children don’t just die on their own. The realization sickened the Chief Scientist, as he had grown to love the precocious child. For a brief moment he considered stealing the boy away, rescuing the child and fleeing the fate Konig planned. That was just as quickly dismissed, though. There would be no escaping Konig. The High Priest was an unstoppable force of will. And he’d release the Schatten Mörder, his Cotardist assassins, to punish the scientist. The thought turned Aufschlag’s guts to water. No, the boy will die as Konig plans.

  Morgen laid a gentle hand on Aufschlag’s shoulder. “You look sad.”

  Aufschlag forced a smile. “I was thinking how quickly you’ve grown up.”

  Again Morgen studied Aufschlag, searching his eyes. What was the boy thinking? Had he seen through the lie?

  “I’ve been thinking about gods,” Morgen finally said. “Gods aren’t bound by the same rules as people. People gain power from their beliefs and delusions. The stronger the belief, the more power. I had assumed this was true of gods as well, but I’m no longer sure. You see, people generally have one delusion. Some, Comorbidics, may have secondary delusions, but these are always minor in comparison. Like Konig. He’s first and foremost a Gefahrgeist, but he’s also developed Doppelgangist and some minor Mirrorist tendencies. Though he’s a powerful Gefahrgeist, he has little control over his Doppels, and still has to go to Schwacher Sucher in order to use a mirror.” Aufschlag could hear the boy struggling to frame his thoughts and sound adult. “People are defined by their primary delusion.

  “But this isn’t true for gods.”

  This caught Aufschlag’s attention. “What do you mean?”

  “A god doesn’t require delusion or insanity, because his worshipers suffer for him. Yet in a way, he has all of their delusions.”

  “How do you know this?”

  The boy smiled happily. “Because I am not limited and I will be a god.”

  If that’s true, perhaps he doesn’t have to die to Ascend! Konig wouldn’t like that. Morgen’s death was a critical part of the plan. Those whom you slay must serve in the Afterdeath; the boy’s death was control. Aufschlag swallowed a lump of nervous tension. “Can you show me?”

  Morgen held out his left arm and wriggled the fingers. “Watch.”

  Before the Chief Scientist’s eyes Morgen’s arm turned black. The skin peeled away and the stench of putrefaction filled the room. In moments the boy’s arm was nothing but leathery gristle clinging to bone.

  “Cotardist—”

  “Watch.” Morgen’s arm writhed as flesh grew outward from his shoulder, wrapping the bones in glistening tendons, squirming veins, and thin slabs of muscle. When the arm was whole the boy smiled and a nearby table burst into flames. It was ash in seconds. Aufschlag opened his mouth to speak, but the boy exploded, engulfed in roaring fire. The floor was scorched and Aufschlag was forced to retreat from the heat. Yet Morgen, still smiling at the scientist’s shocked expression, remained unharmed. Then the fire was gone and Morgen stood in a circle of burned floor. He gestured toward the mirror and dozens of his reflections scrambled out. The room soon filled with hundreds of identical children all holding different conversations.

  Aufschlag stood paralyzed with fear. The child is demented! We haven’t created a god, we’ve made an insane monster!

  “We’re scaring Aufschlag.”

  The Chief Scientist couldn’t tell which boy said this; presumably the one still standing in the charred circle. As one the Doppels—or are they reflections?—stopped talking and turned to face him.

  “We’re sorry.” One hundred voices spoke in perfect unison. “We had to show you so you’d understand.”

  The boys formed rows and climbed back into their mirror. One child remained. It wasn’t the one in the burned circle.

  “Are you . . .” Afraid of the answer, Aufschlag couldn’t finish the question.

  “Yes. The original.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Fairly.” He suddenly stepped forward and hugged Aufschlag, burying his face in the man’s chest. “I had to show you. I knew you’d understand.”

  Understand? If anything, all the scientist had was more questions. Was the boy’s control as perfect as it seemed? If so, maybe he truly was a god, maybe they hadn’t failed after all. Was the child correct in stating he could make use of his worshipers’ delusions without sharing in them, or was Morgen’s mind shattered beyond all redemption? And with that shattering, did that mean his inevitable fall was soon to come, like every other Geisteskranken?

  But these questions paled when held against the one thing Aufschlag had learned.

  Morgen is ready. But does he still need to die?

  He knew Konig’s answer. Yes! Unless Morgen died at the High Priest’s hand, Konig would have no sure means of controlling the god. What then should he tell Konig?

  Aufschlag’s unanswered questions fled, forgotten, drowned in the desperate wave of love washing over him. I have to save the child. If the child was a Mirrorist, Doppelgangist, and Hassebrand, why not Gefahrgeist too? Even as the thought occurred to him he saw what had to be done.

  Aufschlag hugged the boy close and struggled to keep his tears in check. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d held another person. “Morgen, you have to listen carefully.”

  The boy pulled back, confused but nodding. “Okay.”

  “You cannot show this to anyone else.”

  “But why? Konig will—”

  “A good god is humble.” Aufschlag forced himself to be firm with the boy. “A good god doesn’t show off. Konig would be very disappointed with such an ostentatious display. Think back: Have you ever seen him show off his Gefahrgeist powers?”

  Morgen’s brow crinkled in thought. “No. And he does keep his Doppels mostly confined to his chambers.”

  “Right.” Konig had other, far more desperate reasons for confining his Doppels, but the boy didn’t need to know them. “You must do as Konig does. You must learn subtlety.”

  When the boy had promised not to tell anyone of his abilities, Aufschlag sent him on his way. He’d have to order a work crew to replace the burned table and clean the scorch marks from the floor. He was treading dangerous ground. Deceiving Konig for long would be next to impossible, and if he was caught, his punishment would be a long and lingering death. Yet he knew the risk was worth it.

  A new feeling took root in the depths of Aufschlag’s soul. A warmth he didn’t recognize. He was, for perhaps the first time ever, truly doing the right thing. He loved Morgen as a son and no man would allow his only son to be slain. Not without a fight.

  CHAPTER 16

  I don’t see what I want to see, I see what I need to see. If you don’t like it, see something else.

  —ANONYMOUS HALLUZINIEREN

  This was the calm eye of the storm, the hot center of crumbling sanity and last hopes. In all directions the horizon coiled and heaved, a lurid bruise, a maelstrom of abhorre
nt neuroses given form. The sky looked sick, reality ill with gross mistreatment. Gehirn tasted it in the air. The very ground wailed affliction. She wanted to cauterize the infection.

  Regen Anrufer—Erbrechen’s pet shaman—shuffled alongside Gehirn, his bulbous eyes staring off into bleak eternity, his few rotting teeth bared in a perpetual grimace. A stream of gritty brown drool attached chin to chest. Gehirn wanted to burn the Schlammstamm shaman in a wash of all-cleansing fire. The degenerate mob, staggering under the weight of Erbrechen’s litter, followed behind. She wanted to torch the mob too. Flame ablating flesh from bone, rinsing the wretched stench from life.

  Burn. The thought sent shivers of pleasure tickling down her spine. As always, disgust followed.

  Erbrechen remained hidden within the tented litter, accompanied this time by a young blond boy who reminded Gehirn of the god-child Morgen. Her stomach twisted at the thought.

  When she walked in front of the mob, the stench was less overpowering—though far from nonexistent—and they didn’t have to wade through the disgusting leavings of a crowd unable to care for themselves. Erbrechen’s friends wouldn’t—or couldn’t—leave the caravan to relieve themselves. Instead they defecated as they walked, spilling thin drooling feces along emaciated legs. Most no longer possessed shoes and walked barefoot, blistered and bleeding, through the droppings of those in front.

  Burn all of this shite to ash.

  Gehirn slashed a sideways glance at Regen. Blood still trickled from the many wounds the shaman had opened along his bony arms to feed the sky. Self-hatred and self-abuse were requisites for many Geisteskranken. Regen drained himself as though blood—and not his failing sanity—fueled his power. Pale and drawn, he walked like a poorly animated corpse, looking like he might collapse at any moment.

  And when he did, the sun would return. Erbrechen asked too much of the Schlammstamm shaman.

  “Protect my Hassebrand from the sun and the moon,” Erbrechen had demanded of Regen.

  “A storm will grow, one I can’t—”

  “Just make sure it doesn’t rain here.” Erbrechen smiled then at his squat shaman. “Do this for me, my friend.”

  Gehirn saw the despair, hatred, and love in Regen’s eyes. Regen would hold the storm at bay for as long as he could. His love of Erbrechen allowed no less.

  Gehirn and Regen shared a look of mutual hate and understanding. Both knew Regen’s sanity would crumble under the continual abuse. Erbrechen burned through Regen’s sanity at a terrifying pace.

  Gehirn chuckled quietly as she imagined the ugly little shaman as a dry stick soon to be tossed into a raging inferno. The thought both pleased and sobered. Gehirn could only hope the organ stew might stave off her own descent into madness. If Erbrechen was correct, and eating the souls of those less tainted could save her, perhaps she could satisfy Erbrechen and yet still survive.

  “He doesn’t love you,” muttered Regen, picking at a scab.

  “Yes, he does,” she answered. “He shares his stew with me. Does he share it with you?” she asked, knowing the answer.

  Regen scowled at the ground. A stream of brown drool hung unnoticed from his weak chin. “Does he touch you?” the shaman suddenly asked. “If he loved you he’d touch you.” Regen grinned rot at her. “Has he ever touched you?”

  No, not once. Gehirn glanced over her shoulder, back toward Erbrechen’s tented litter. She could only imagine what was happening within. “Not all love is physical,” she said.

  Why won’t he touch me?

  AS EACH OF Erbrechen’s followers fell—or was felled—Erbrechen and Gehirn ate of the small souls as Regen looked on, the desperate hope in his eyes dimming hour by hour. Erbrechen never seemed to notice.

  Gehirn studied the swarm of skeletal bodies hustling to break another body into small enough pieces to fit into the cooking pot. Yet she could not argue. For in truth, it didn’t matter so much if Erbrechen loved her, as long as she loved Erbrechen. And she did. Loved and feared and worshiped.

  There was another emotion there, lurking beneath the others. Was it hate? No, that couldn’t be possible. Yet his distance stung.

  Later in the day an emaciated woman of indeterminate age with thin, sagging breasts and long, greasy hair came to Gehirn and walked alongside her in silence. The Hassebrand ground her teeth, resisting the urge to burn the woman to oily ash.

  “He wants to see you,” the woman finally said, her voice surprisingly strong and feminine. “You can find me after, if you want.” She batted eyelashes at Erbrechen, who unabashedly examined her undernourished form. She had none of the tight-wound strength the female thief possessed. Nothing of the pent-up rage or enticing air of danger. The woman was almost completely uninteresting. Gehirn had nothing to fear from her and she offered none of the loathing the Hassebrand required from a sexual partner. I can change that.

  Gehirn showed pronounced canines in a halfhearted leer. “I will find you, and later, when you hate me enough, perhaps then . . .” She left it hanging, dark with threat and promise, and turned to join Erbrechen.

  In all directions the sky roiled with black clouds lit from beneath with stabbing tines of lightning. The rumble of distant thunder had become a continuous backdrop, a reason to speak louder, but little more. Erbrechen waved Gehirn onto the litter as the Hassebrand approached. Gehirn heard and ignored the strained groan of the men and women carrying the litter as she clambered aboard.

  Erbrechen, resplendent in his oily nakedness, beamed, his greasy cherubic face seemingly lit from within. “Ah, my good friend. I have need of your wise counsel.”

  He desires my counsel! Gehirn’s doubts and angers suddenly seemed petty. They weren’t gone, but they didn’t much matter in comparison to her love of Erbrechen. She basked in the gaze of those sea-green eyes.

  Gehirn sat across from her one true friend. The gentle roll of the litter as it crawled across the land toward their destiny added a stately feel to the proceedings.

  “How may I be of assistance?” Gehirn asked.

  “I have been thinking. This Konig Furimmer who was once your friend. He has an army gathered about him, does he not?”

  “Konig maintains a small but well-equipped military force with squads of Geisteskranken of all breeds. The strength of the Geborene Damonen religion backs him, the united faith of a hundred thousand people. His grip on their faith is absolute. Konig manages the impossible, wielding the beliefs of the masses like a well-honed tool.”

  Erbrechen waved an arm he could barely lift, his fat sausagelike fingers almost lost in the pudgy hand. “Then I will need an army of my own.”

  “You have me. I was considered by many to be the most powerful Geisteskranken in Konig’s service.” Gehirn frowned, remembering her dream of the Krieger assassination attempt. Gods, she wished she knew if it had been real. “Perhaps this is why he sent me away. He saw my power growing and feared my increasing instability.”

  “He didn’t offer to aid his friend?” Erbrechen asked innocently.

  Gehirn scowled and watched Regen plod dejectedly through the mud. “Konig was never my friend.”

  “And he tossed you aside in your time of need.” Erbrechen tutted with disgust. His obscenely fat and greasy face contorting in a frown, he looked like an enraged baby. “But we’ll show him. What he threw away still has great value.”

  Gehirn, surprised, looked up. “It has? Is? I am? Valuable? Valued?”

  “Very. I cannot do this without you.” Erbrechen waved a hand at the unruly mob surrounding and following his litter. “There is little I can do with such as these. Few have delusions worth speaking of and none can fight worth a damn. At best they are fodder, a distraction. But you, my tall and icy-eyed friend, you can wipe out armies. The delusions of Konig’s Geisteskranken will be nothing before your fire. Never before have you dared to reach for your pinnacle: the curse of all Geisteskranken was a wall between you and your potential. My faith removes such walls. I know you can unleash what you keep so tightly pent-up in
side. You can burn it all.”

  Gehirn’s heart slammed against her ribs. Erbrechen’s belief could not be denied. Erbrechen defined reality. How could I have doubted his love?

  “I—” Gehirn let out a long, shaking breath. She closed her eyes and whispered, “I will burn the world for you.”

  Erbrechen clapped gleefully. “Burn the world clean and I shall remake it anew. We shall be gods, my friend. New gods.” Corpulent arms flailed in excitement. “I always knew I was destined for greatness.” He darted a glance at Gehirn. “We are destined for greatness,” he amended. “Unlike your Konig—the foul betrayer—I do not forget my friends.”

  Erbrechen told Gehirn of his plans: he would take his wretched host to Selbsthass, topple Konig, and claim both the Theocracy and the god-child as his own. Along the way they would stop at every town and city and Erbrechen would convince their populations to join in his cause. As more joined, Erbrechen would grow in power and fewer would be able to resist. Gehirn would burn those few who did. In Selbsthass there would be garrisons of troops and each would house a squad of Geisteskranken trained in battle. These were the true threat, the most likely to be able to resist Erbrechen, and the most likely to be able to strike from beyond the range of his power. These too Gehirn would burn.

  “You have much burning to do,” Erbrechen promised. “So much burning.” Erbrechen licked wet lips in anticipation. “I’m hungry!”

  LATER, AS GEHIRN lay spooning the bruised and bleeding woman who shook with her very disgust and hatred, she realized she had contributed nothing and Erbrechen had not once asked for her counsel. For now, though, she was gloriously happy to be involved in such a bold undertaking. Doubt grew only in the fertile darkness of solitude.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Gefahrgeist must first fool themselves. After that, everyone else is easy.

  —VERSKLAVEN SCHWACHE, GEFAHRGEIST PHILOSOPHER

  A cold rain fell in Selbsthass City, turning the market’s cobbled roads glossy and slick. The damp brought out the dank smell of the city’s sewers and thinned the herds of evening shoppers to a dejected trickle. Most of the market stalls had already closed, their keepers leaving early for the warmth and comfort of home. Distant jagged forks of lightning stabbed at the ground, lighting the southern sky an actinic white and illuminating the sagging underbellies of the cancerous clouds lurking there. The echo of thunder rolled continually in deep rumbling anger.