Agents of the Demiurge (6 page)

People from soft societies never pushed him
far. At some level, they sensed that he was willing to go much
further in pursuit of vengeance than they would dare dream. It
freaked them out a little when their posturing failed to impact
him.

He met up with another deputy investigator on
his way into the Church building. The woman nodded to him. “Any
idea what this meeting is about?”

“I heard someone from the regional office was
here,” Erik said.

“Great. Another lecture on proper
behavior.”

The two of them entered the gathering hall
and sat in separate pews. Other deputies filed into the room. Then,
in order of seniority, they were called from the room. Erik settled
in to wait, displaying the dignified mannerisms expected from a
member of the Opposition.

The fifteen deputies in front of him left one
by one until he was the only person in the room. Then the secretary
appeared to summon him. Erik followed her down the hall. “They
doing staff reviews or something?”

“Something,” the secretary said, cradling one
hand.

“You injured?” he asked.

“Just a scratch. Don't worry about it.” She
opened the door to the conference room and waited for him to enter.
The door closed behind him.

Erik walked forward and extended his hand
towards the man he didn't recognize. “Hello, sir. My name is Fran
Wilson.”

“A pleasure, deputy. I am Lieutenant
Investigator Edwin. I see from your record that you've been here a
few months.”

“Yes, sir.”

Edwin was thirty at most, but held himself
erect with rigid professionalism. “You reported your parents as
suspicious individuals and they were later executed for the crime
of worship. Since then, you have become a cornerstone of the
congregation. If I was uncharitable, I might wonder if you sold
your parents out for your own gain.”

“Their betrayal deeply hurt me, sir. I choose
to honor their memory by hunting down those who perverted
them.”

“You
honor
their memory, deputy?”

“Chapter five, paragraph forty six: 'There is
good in all people commensurate with the level that they reject the
Demiurge.' My parents never indoctrinated me in their faith. I owe
them my purity of spirit.”

“Quoting the Book impresses simple people,
deputy. I am intelligent enough to know that anyone sufficiently
motivated can twist isolated passages to support any course of
action.”

Erik fought down a snarl before it could
reach his face. “Yes, sir.”

“Hold out your hand, deputy.”

When Erik complied, the Lieutenant
Investigator pulled his belt knife and sliced Erik's hand open.
Startled, Erik pulled his hand to his chest and turned to the door.
The Investigator and one of the senior deputies stood there, tasers
in hand. Erik licked his lips. “Are you going to kill me?”

The Lieutenant Investigator gestured
impatiently at Erik's hand. “Show it to me.”

“What?”

“Your hand. Show it to me.”

“Why?”

“Because the Church has an Agent of the
Demiurge in custody. We learned a fascinating lesson from him.
Agents don't retain injury. Now show me your hand, deputy.”

Erik spun to the door. He lifted his hands
into a boxer's pose, distracting the eyes of his adversaries, then
kicked the Investigator's groin, pivoted, and kicked again at the
other deputy's knee.

He danced back to give himself space. Using
the pause in action, Erik ripped a network cable free and wrapped
it in each hand to create a rudimentary garrote.

The thunderous report reached his ears at the
same time a stab of pain struck his chest. Erik's eyes registered
the Lieutenant Inspector holding a handgun, then darted down to
behold the bloody patch sitting center left on his chest. Based on
the rapid growth of the red shirt stain, either his pulmonary,
aorta, or heart itself had a giant hole in it.

Erik tried to charge his adversary, but his
body refused to work right. While he liked to think himself immune
to psychological shock, the rapid drop in blood pressure had done
the deed. He collapsed to the ground.

The Lieutenant Inspector's face radiated zeal
like an oven. “I got you, hated one. And you are going to suffer
for what your master has done. I will make sure of it.”

Hess bound the
Observer's body to a support pole in his basement using his belt
collection. One belt looped around her waist to hold her snug
against the pole. Another did the same for her feet. Hess used the
cloth belt of a bathrobe to tie her bony wrists together behind her
back.

When the Observer's neck mended, her pale
eyes blinked and her emaciated form tugged against the restraints.
Hess studied the figure, watching for any telltale quirks. Who was
it? He wasn't sure what he would do if this was Ingrid or Erik.
Torture wasn't something he had ever done. He preferred to keep
that particular activity on the never ever list. But killing an
Observer wasn't possible. Maybe torture was the only way to deal
with his opponents. It might even force a touch of empathy into
them. Maybe some torture now would make the next world a better
place.

The waif stared back at him, then blew out a
breath. “Hess.”

He still had no idea who this was. “And you
are?”

“Jerome,” said the woman.

He had known Jerome for less than an hour,
during a time when he was operating at less than his optimum.
“Prove it.”

“I opened the sky for you last Iteration,
then you and Elza stayed behind.” The waif raised a brow. “How
about letting me go now?”

Hess removed the bindings. “Didn't it occur
to you that I might not react well to an Observer knocking on my
door?”

Jerome sighed. “I didn't even know for sure
an Observer lived here.”

“I thought the Creator gave you a cheat sheet
telling you where the rest of us start off every Iteration.”

“Oh, the Creator did,” Jerome said. “Only
those memories are about as reliable as any others this
Iteration.”

“Well, it's nice to know the Creator isn't
playing favorites.” Hess gestured towards the stairs. “As much as
I'm enjoying your visit, I need to prepare for an important dinner.
Could you come back tomorrow?”

Jerome shook her head. “We have an emergency
situation.”

“Is the Church after you?”

Her eyes grew distant. “Worse. I think we've
splintered the Creator.”

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.

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.