Agents of the Demiurge Read online

  “You want me to buy blood on the black market?”

  “They call it an underground market this Iteration, due to obvious reasons, but yes, I want you to buy something that the seller doesn't have the legal right to sell. They should agree to the transaction if you offer them a generous sum. Then they play around with their records to make the blood disappear from the system.”

  Jerome hesitated. “And if they refuse?”

  “Then we visit another hospital. There are five within driving distance.”

  “And if they report me to the police?”

  Hess slapped Jerome on her bony back. “Save some of your panic for when we're charging into a Church torture compound with a nuke.”

  With a sigh much too large for Jerome's slight frame, she stood. “Let's get this over with.”

  Hess made it back home hours before the others. To productively pass the time, he began mixing paint with latex in small batches, then comparing the dried product to his flesh. After some experimentation, he managed to achieve a reasonable match and moved on to the creation of false skin.

  The task proved less difficult than he had expected, requiring little more than a steady hand and an eye for detail. Hess painted a layer onto his forearm, then cut himself with a knife. Blood welled upward through wound and artifice to pool, run, and drip onto the table surface.

  When his injury erased itself from existence and his blood reverted to its proper location, Hess scrutinized the gash held in place by latex. Discounting the lack of blood, it appeared realistic enough.

  Lights from outside caught his attention. Hess moved to the window, where he saw one of the Church SUV's opening its doors to release a swarm of Deputy Investigators. Hess ran back into the living room, plastered a small amount of premixed skin onto his index finger, hastily molded it while he moved to the fridge and retrieved a tray of thawing ground beef.

  Hess sliced his finger, then dipped a kitchen towel in the puddle beneath the ground beef and wrapped that around the wounded appendage. Pounding at the door announced the arrival of the Investigators. Hess tossed the meat into the trash, threw a jacket over the evidence of his experimentation with latex, squeezed some beef juice from his makeshift bandage onto the knife blade, and walked to the door.

  A second round of pounding began just as he yanked the door open. Before they could say a word, Hess waved his wrapped hand in front of them. “Whatever you want, it has to wait five damn minutes!”

  He didn't give them time to process his words, but went about the business of locating his first aid kit and then cleaning and bandaging his fake injury while the Church Investigators watched. “Damn the Demiurge,” he muttered loud enough for all to hear. “This is that woman's fault for not taking care of the leftovers.”

  Hess made eye contact with the dominant one of the group. “Honestly, I wish I could afford trained help. Do you know how hard it is to live on the bluff when you have to hire incompetent pales from the Boyce neighborhood? Theora's father certainly took notice of her inadequacies. And he very bluntly called me on them in front of everyone.”

  The Deputy opened his mouth and Hess resumed his rant, seizing the knife and tossing it into the sink. “Cutting my own leftovers. I'll bet Mr. Winfield would find it hilarious that I cut myself. Damn the Demiurge!”

  All three of the Deputies exchanged awkward glances.

  “I'm sorry for my outburst, gentlemen. I hired that woman to impress Mr. Winfield, but it backfired spectacularly. The plan was to request his permission to ask for Theora's hand.” Hess sighed. “But instead of asking for her hand, I made a fool of myself and now I have cut my own hand. Or at least a finger.”

  “Mr. Orlin,” the leader of the deputies said, “We need to test you.”

  “I've been drinking, but I never went anywhere near my car.”

  “Right, Mr. Orlin. We need to test that you aren't an Agent.”

  Hess snorted. “What do you want me to do? Curse the Demiurge? I've been doing that all night, buddies.”

  “We need to see your blood,” the man said.

  “Seriously? It's on the table, it's on the rag, it's all over the place.”

  “We're supposed to draw it ourselves.”

  Hess picked up the kitchen towel streaked with red. “Here is my blood. Honestly, why are you coming here in the middle of the night trying to draw my blood? Haven't I had a bad enough day as it is?”

  Awkward silence. Then one of the other men, silent up until this point, spoke. “He did bleed all over the place while we watched. More blood than we saw from any of the people we did ourselves.”

  “Yeah.” The leader nodded. “Yeah, you're right. Take it easy, Mr. Orlin. We'll get out of your way.” He paused at the door. “Oh, there's something that might make you feel a bit better on the news.”

  “What's that?” Hess asked.

  “They found an Agent of the Demiurge.”

  Hours later, Elza returned with Jerome and a duffel bag. She wasted no time hanging bags of blood from wire coat hangers suspended off of ceiling fans and jabbing needles into veins for all three of them.

  Hess snapped his fingers at Jerome. “You have to keep moving the needle. Let it sit still for too long and your body will disintegrate the metal. An Observer taking a transfusion is pretty much constant poking.”

  Jerome clenched her jaw. “How much blood do we need?”

  “Three units a day,” Elza said, then, when Jerome made a face, continued, “Or you could risk a visit to the Church headquarters under less pleasant circumstances. Honestly, Jerome, this may be inconvenient, but it beats the alternative.”

  “Assuming latex and packed red blood cells fool anyone.”

  “It will,” Hess said, nodding towards the band-aid on his finger. In response to their startled expressions, he detailed the events of that evening, causing Jerome to mutter imprecations.

  Halfway through his first unit of blood, Hess let the needle linger in place for too long and its tip vanished, eliminated from existence where it intersected his body. He swapped in a fresh needle and went back to work. Their nature conspired to make receiving blood difficult, but fortunately their immunity to disease allowed them to reuse and swap needles with impunity.

  As they finished their transfusions, Elza doled out further assignments. The duty of discovering the details of the Investigator's test fell to Hess. It would be his responsibility to learn where they needed to apply a layer of latex pseudo-skin. He also needed to pre-mix dye and latex to match their flesh tones.

  To Jerome, Elza gave the job of computer research, the purpose of which was to create a report of the Church headquarters' facilities, personnel, traditions, and standard operating procedures. Elza informed them that she would begin sourcing the materials and components necessary for the construction of their nuclear weapon.

  They managed a few hours of sleep before the light of dawn brought them awake to tackle their tasks. That first day, Hess colored latex before visiting his neighbors on various errands. He returned a borrowed garden hose, gifted a fifth of premium gin, asked for suggestions on planning the upcoming Church picnic, and complained about his disastrous dinner party the previous night.

  The fruit of his frantic socializing was the knowledge that the Deputies performed their test by piercing the palm with a sterile lancet and then observing both the wound and a handkerchief dabbed in the resulting blood. Returning with this knowledge, Hess set about painting fake flesh onto all three of them in the specified region.

  Jerome spent the day working on a laptop and filling a notepad with her findings, while Elza diagrammed her weapon complete with measurements in the margins. They all took an hour break to receive another blood transfusion, then went back to their various tasks.

  His assigned labor complete, Hess turned his attentions to preparing a meal and acquiring small arms. The meal consisted of lamb tips basted in ginger soy dressing, wild rice, and sauteed vegetables. His weapon purchases included two nine millimeter
semi-automatic handguns, a twelve gauge shotgun, and a tiny .22 caliber suitable as a backup weapon – all bought second hand through an anonymous online market.

  When he returned that evening with all four weapons, Hess microwaved a quick dinner of mostly edible noodles in flavorless sauce, then sat down for another blood transfusion. He discovered that the Deputies had returned to the house while he was gone.

  Jerome and Elza had passed the prick test, but the Deputies insisted that they needed to conduct the official test on Hess. Then Jerome informed them that she had managed to contact several of the other Observers online and, more than that, had invited San and Drake for a visit.

  Which ignited the requisite argument over the fact that Jerome had invited people into their lives without even the courtesy of asking – though their main argument was the inclusion of Drake, who had assisted Ingrid in burying Hess and Elza alive during Iteration one forty three and then helped Erik hunt down Hess in one forty four. San had a standing invitation from Elza to visit whenever she wanted, which typically meant a month spent in her company every few Iterations.

  Their conflict expired before anyone retracted a position, its heat smothered by needle induced frustration. In a conciliatory gesture, Jerome agreed to inform them before she contacted any of the others.

  When they completed their infusion, Elza asked a question. “How did San react when you revealed your existence?”

  Jerome cleared her throat. “That remains to be seen.”

  “Does that also remain to be seen with Drake?”

  “Yes.”

  Elza's lips peeled apart in a snarl. “Then you must be posing as one of us. I expect a different answer the next time I ask that question.”

  When Jerome shot a look at him, Hess lifted one of the nine millimeters he had purchased free of a holster strapped below his armpit. “If Drake tries to pick things up where we left off last Iteration, I'm ready. He won't find me confused this time.”

  Jerome compressed her lips to a fine line. “They hurt you worse than I realized. Maybe they even deserve your hatred. But we serve the Creator.”

  “We are the Creator. You told me that.”

  “Hess, we are fragments of the Creator's consciousness. That makes us special as hell, but it doesn't mean we are equal to the One we serve. The needs of the Creator supersede all else.”

  Hess shoved his handgun home in its holster. “I never believed that. Not even when I thought I was the only Observer out there. Bringing a world into existence carries moral obligations. Creating worlds of brutality for our entertainment is wrong.”

  “Enough with the lectures already,” Jerome said. “I will never accept that your morality applies to the Creator.”

  The next morning, when they met up for another session of needle work, Jerome informed them that she had revealed herself to San and Drake the previous evening over the phone and proved her identity as the twelfth Observer by revealing intimate details of their lives.

  Hess endured a poke from visiting Deputies, then went with Elza to pick up a length of heavy steel pipe and finalize the lease on a dilapidated garage within the business district of the city. After, they separated with separate shopping lists. Explosives and blasting caps topped his list. On Elza's were all the various tools she would need to machine a length of pipe into the core of a nuclear device.

  When they arrived back home in the afternoon, pulling in front of his house in their separate vehicles, a stout middle-aged woman met them in the driveway, dressed in a rumpled woman's suit and smoking a pungent cigar with such aplomb that she could only be one person.

  Elza embraced San warmly the moment she exited her car. “I can't wait to hear what you've done since we last talked!”

  “Please tell me you've gone male already,” San said. “The Creator owes you some variety in your sex. And the rest of us would adore seeing Hess get familiar with a man.”

  Hess waved on his way to the house. “Always a pleasure, San.”

  Inside, Jerome stood with bony arms crossed and head tilted. “It seems I am not very popular among my own kind.”

  “We have no history with you,” Hess said.

  “Nor am I likely to have the time to develop one.”

  Hess glared out the window towards the reunion. “She voted already?”

  “So far it's three to one in favor of annihilation.”

  After a moment, Hess nodded towards the kitchen. “Come help me hide the premium ingredients.”

  “If you are worried about the balsamic vinegar, you're too late. San emptied the entire bottle glazing odd items.”

  Hess grunted. “That bottle cost two hundred dollars. Knowing her, she wasted it on crackers and lemons.”

  “Canned tuna, mixed nuts, tea leaves, and chocolate chips. She reports it all tasted horrible.”

  “Just give me a hand with the wine,” Hess said.

  Chapter 17 - Erik / Iteration 2

  Beeta's family surrounded her all night. Mott spent the evening meal elaborating on his story of treating his fictional sister's madness. The village elders hung on every word. Before he retired to a pallet in the guest pavilion that night, Beeta's mother stopped by to beg for his help.

  So it was that the villagers delivered a crazy woman into his care the next morning. Beeta sagged between her escorts, an expression of profound apathy on her face.

  Mott schooled his features into the concerned smile he had practiced. “Hello, Beeta. My name is Mott. Did they tell you about me?”

  Beeta's lips formed into an innocent pout. “Dead sister.”

  Her escorts froze in mortification until Mott's laughter rang out. “Dead sister indeed. You go right to the heart of things.”

  The crazy woman's cultivated detachment slipped enough that she openly studied him. “What do you want?”

  Mott shrugged. “All sorts of things. Isn't that how it is with everyone? If we wanted only one thing, life would be boring.”

  “What do you want with me?”

  “What do you think I want with you?”

  Beeta looked away from him. “You think you can fix me.”

  “Is that what they told you?” Mott put enough amusement into his tone that Beeta's eyes came back to him. “That is what they wanted to hear and not what I told them.”

  “You're not trying to fix me?”

  “Have you ever thought that maybe you aren't broken?”

  She kicked over the chamber pot he had filled the previous night. “You don't know anything about me.”

  “Neither do the people of your village. They think you are broken, but so far I haven't seen anything to convince me of that. I see a woman with a strong spirit. You see, Beeta, the more tightly the rules bind us, the more we want our freedom. People say it is wrong to say mean words. Wrong to think violent thoughts. Wrong to want unpopular things. But we have a choice, Beeta. We can believe the people and despise ourselves or we can reject everything they hold dear and take our freedom.”

  Mott stepped closer to Beeta and dropped his voice to a whisper. “You see, Beeta, when I told everyone that my sister had a touch of madness and I was able to speak sense to her, I may have reversed a few of the details.”

  He glanced to her concerned escorts and spoke loud enough to be heard by all. “Do you think that your troubles come from your own mind, Beeta? Or is there a chance that other people provoke the anger from you? What do you think?”

  She furrowed her brow in thought. “I don't know. Sometimes my thoughts run fast and I know I am right no matter what anyone says. But other times I believe everything they say of me and I only want for the pain to go away.”

  “Yesterday you were sad.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what of today?”

  “I don't know. I'm just tired. So tired.”

  Mott nodded to her escorts. “Too tired to escape?”

  Beeta recoiled. “I can't do that!”

  “Why not?”

  “My mother would wor
ry!”

  “Just for a day, until you came back.”

  She shook her head. “I can't hurt her any more.”

  “Whose rule is that? Yours? Or theirs?”

  A pause. Then a smile. “You're worse than me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You ran away, didn't you? So your sister couldn't make you behave anymore. Now you're free and you can do anything you want.”

  “I don't want your guards to know my story. So if you want to hear the truth about me, then we have to escape.”

  The corners of Beeta's lips twitched. “Promise me you will tell me the full truth of any question I ask you.”

  “The full truth?”

  “You have to promise if you want me to come with you.”

  “Very well, Beeta. I promise to tell you the full truth.”

  “On three, then.” Her eyes sparkled. “One.” And then she was running, leaving him waiting for additional numbers that weren't coming. Mott followed after a moment, barely ahead of the two villagers on guard duty.

  Beeta never looked back, running straight for the edge of the village. Mott lagged behind, then spun when the first of the two escorts, a man, passed by. Mott locked his arms around the man's neck and used every iota of torque his legs, torso, and arms could generate to cause a delicious popping noise, followed by the collapse of a warm corpse.

  Before the second guard, the woman, could decide how to react to the violence, Mott punched her in the throat hard enough to hurt his knuckles. As she stumbled back, her mouth open to release a scream that could not escape her crushed windpipe, Mott swept her legs out from under her.

  The woman landed on her back and Mott knelt down to firmly grasp one of her ears. He pulled hard, fast, and it came free to hang by a thread of skin, the wound oddly bloodless at the instant of its appearance. The woman's eyes bulged, but still no sound escaped her. Mott shoved the severed ear into her open mouth, then resumed chasing his crazy woman.