Agents of the Demiurge (9 page)

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.

“I wish you had not seen that,” a man said
from beside him.

Mott startled, then forced his features to
stillness. “Does the woman want to harm someone or is she seeking
attention?”

“Beeta harms no one but herself.”

“My name is Mott.”

“Welcome to our village, Mott. We will have
food and company tonight. Tomorrow, if you are able, you can help
the men thatch roofs.”

Mott's eyes drifted back to the crazy woman.
It had been years since he traveled with his last companion. Keeno
had been that man's name. He was a man with the face of a child and
the heart of a snake. Until he turned on the Creator's Observer.
Then Keeno had been a man without a face and the heart of a
terrified child.

Perhaps it was time for a new companion.

“My sister was like Beeta,” Mott said.

There was a sharp intake of breath. “What
happened to her?”

“I was always able to talk sense into her.
First when we were children and then later when she chose a man.
But I wasn't around all the time. The women knew not to let her
have a knife, but one day she took a shard of pottery and used that
instead. If I had been there that day, I could have stopped her. No
one knew the right words to use. Everyone thought they needed to
convince her that everything was good, but she knew in her heart
that wasn't true.”

“What else would you tell someone burdened
with a heavy heart but that things are better than they seem?”

“I always asked my sister about her thoughts
and let her tell me the truth she knew instead of forcing my truth
on her. Because I had never argued with her, she trusted me to
understand. Everyone else in her life tried to make her better. She
could never trust them again because of that. Everyone in our
entire village became her enemy except for me.”

“But why did you never try to talk sense to
your sister?”

“Because she was my older sister and
I
trusted
her
. She confided in me and by the time I was old
enough to wish her better I knew the ways of mental illnesses
intimately and didn't make the same mistakes as everyone else. Only
I knew how to talk to her. Only I had never betrayed her
trust.”

The man was silent for a long time. Mott
glanced over from time to time, noting the play of thoughts on the
man's face. Finally, the man spoke. “We never knew. We wanted to
comfort her, make her feel better.”

“Of course you meant well,” Mott said. “It is
no one's fault that you didn't know the things I know.”

The man sighed. “You are wise, my friend. No
one is to blame for not knowing the best way to support dear
Beeta.”

“You couldn't have known that your kind words
would make it impossible for her to trust everyone in the village,”
Mott added.

“Not everyone in the village. My friend, you
have never spoken to Beeta. Surely she would not think you are
against her. You know the right way to calm madness. Would you be
willing to speak with her? I promise you that everyone would think
you a hard worker indeed if your labor tomorrow was words with
Beeta instead of laying thatch.”

Mott bowed deeply. “I would be honored to
help that young woman. After the loss of my sister, I could never
walk away from someone who needed help in the fight against
madness.”

He stalked the
neighborhood on foot for two hours before returning home. Elza and
Jerome sat in the living room, eyes glued to the television. They
fidgeted as he entered the house.

Hess shook his head. “I'm not interested in
whatever you have to say. Elza – I don't even want to see you right
now. And Jerome – I want you gone from my life forever.”

Elza pointed at the television.

“I don't care,” Hess began.

Then the video caught his attention. An older
man with a bulbous nose flinched as a red-hot poker contacted his
chest, mouth open in a scream as flesh discolored and bled. The
poker pulled away. The man on the screen wept while they
watched.

“What are you watching?”

Jerome answered. “Ingrid.”

Other marks began to fade, blackened flesh
reverting to flawless skin. The poker descended again, once more
glowing an angry red. As Hess flinched in sympathy, Jerome un-muted
the television set, filling the room with hoarse moans and heavy
sobs.

“The man seen here, one Forrest Clark, has
been positively identified by the Church as an Agent of the
Demiurge,” a voice-over narrated. Ingrid's screams faded into
desperate pleading as the poker pulled away.

“Turn it off,” Hess said.

Jerome turned her deep-set eyes on Hess,
emaciated face looking like a skull in the flickering light of the
television. “Why? This is what you wanted, Hess. The people are
punishing Ingrid for you. You ought to watch the entire episode to
take your pleasure in what you've done.”

“This has nothing to do with me,” he
said.

“You blame Ingrid and Erik for everything you
think wrong with the worlds. How is it any different when your
darkest wishes are brought to life? You can't have it both ways,
Hess. Either Ingrid is innocent or you are guilty.”

Hess glared at Jerome. “Then open the sky.
We'll vote next Iteration.”

“No.”

“Why not? Your job is to prevent
situations.”

“Not this time. I collect votes. That is my
only mission. Though I sure as hell don't know how I'm going to get
Ingrid's vote.”

“Hess is right,” Elza interrupted. “You have
to open the sky. Even if you had a way to find the others and get
in to see Ingrid, this world isn't safe. The people are looking for
us and now they know that identifying us is as easy as performing a
prick test.”

Jerome's eyes moved between Hess and Elza.
“My present form may not be suited to breaking into a prison, but
if that's what I need to do, then that is what I am going to
do.”

Elza leaned forward. “Why bother? Considering
what is happening to Ingrid, his decision should be obvious.”

“You don't know that,” Hess said.

“Like you care.” Jerome nodded towards the
television. “This is your revenge fantasy.”

“You really believe I caused this?”

Jerome hesitated the barest fraction of a
second. “Yes.”

Hess lifted his chin. “What's your plan for
getting him out?”

“I can't get him out. I'll have to save
Ingrid for last, break in, get his vote, and end the world.”

“No,” Hess said. “That will take too long.
The Church will be holding Ingrid at their headquarters in the
city. I can get access to as many personal weapons as we need, and
it shouldn't be hard to improvise some explosives.”

Jerome raised a brow. “Seriously?”

“I thought you did research on my cover
identity. Jed Orlin is VP of Logistics at TFK Motors. My
organization moves weapons for the Church.”

“I'm just surprised you want to help
Ingrid.”

“Then you don't know the first thing about
me,” Hess said. “I've wished for a lot of bad things to happen to
Ingrid, but I didn't put him in that room to be tortured. And I'm
not leaving him there.”

Elza sighed. “Pipe bombs won't get you into a
secure facility.”

“I'll rig some propane tanks or
something.”

“You need to breach their security and create
a diversion. That means heavy explosives.” Elza clasped her hands
together. “But heavy explosives are kept secured.”

“We could brew a batch of plastic
explosives,” Hess said.

“You're not thinking big enough,” Elza said.
“This world never developed atomic theory. Consequently, it is
possible to buy large amounts of radioactive material without
alarming a government office.”

“You want to set off a dirty bomb?”

“Still not big enough, Hess. I have enough
money in my trust fund to buy over a hundred pounds of plutonium.
That should be sufficient to start a chain reaction without
enrichment.”

Jerome raised a hand to her mouth. “You know
how to build a nuke?”

“Why wouldn't I? It's just physics and
engineering.”

When Simone
entered, Erik was still giggling from his latest stunt.

Instead of hanging him from the ceiling, his
tormentors now bound him spread eagle to the cold concrete floor.
Still naked, of course. The only times they placed coverings on him
were when they started fires.

“You gouged a man's eye out,” she said.

“He broke my hand enough for it to slip free.
I'd say he was asking for a friendly poke. His buddies nearly shit
their pants when I licked the eye juice off my thumb.”

“I've seen videos of what they do to
you.”

“Hot, ain't it?”

Simone grimaced. “Distasteful at best. But
what I find most disturbing is how rapidly you alternate between
despair and lucidity. I am certain neither state is an act, which
makes me wonder if you are sane.”

“Come on, chica, use that big brain of yours.
Why do normal people get fucked up from bad experiences? Cause
they're children terrified of the future. Even your grandmas only
got eighty years of memories to draw on. Shallow well, if you ask
me. And you're all obsessed with the possibility that bad things
will happen to you.

“Not me. Cut off my cock and it'll grow back
before I need to piss. Light me on fire and everything's peachy in
five. Pain's a bitch, but it doesn't last. Neither will this
prison. I'll get out. And even if I don't, this world will end. You
all fade away like you never were and I go on my merry way.

“You pathetic creatures are blips on the
radar, honey. I'm real. You are not. Nothing you do to my body can
stick. And despite your best efforts, there hasn't been a dent in
my mind yet. Some day, all of this will be a memory I dust off
every couple decades and say 'hey, I remember this one time when I
got caught.' The problem with trying to torture a guy like me is
you can't make me vulnerable.”

“Ingrid hasn't been as resilient.”

“Ingrid is a pussy,” Erik said. “Did he send
a message?”

Simone folded her arms. “Ingrid maintains he
was a young woman last Iteration, living in a place called
Kyrgyzstan.”

“Fucking liar!”

“Watch your language, or I will stop carrying
messages again.”

Erik stopped struggling against his bindings
and took a deep, slow breath. “He was a man in America. He bought a
farm in Sarver when Hess broke cover. Then he went rogue on us. I
know
it was him. Kerzon was with me a hundred percent and
Drake wouldn't mess with me. It was either Ingrid or Griff. And
action ain't exactly Griff's thing.

“I know it was him. I fucking know. He
referenced the time we set off the fire alarm at a movie theater,
back in Iteration twenty. No one knew that story except the two of
us. And he had that annoying tick where he licks his lips all the
time.” Erik paused. “He did it the first day, at least.” He frowned
in thought, rushing through memories of the previous Iteration. The
man claiming to be Ingrid had never licked his lips after the first
day their band met up to take down Hess.

“I have a new question for Ingrid. Ask him if
he ever told one of the others about the movie theater.” Erik
frowned. Himself, Drake, Kerzon, Griff, Hess, and Elza were
accounted for last Iteration. If he accepted Ingrid's assertion
that he had been off posing as a child bride in some backwater
country, then that meant seven Observers were accounted for. That
left four suspects. Even if the dreamy Mariana left her study of
animals, she couldn't act worth shit. Greg was a coward who hid
within academia. Mel hated Hess and didn't do much besides obsess
over art. Which left just San.

San? Could she pull off an almost flawless
impersonation? The crazy bitch was a thrill seeker with no sense of
danger. She was also a close friend of Elza. But if San had been
there, why had she helped them catch Hess in the first place?