Free Agents of the Demiurge by Brian Blose Page A

But love can't fix
everything.”
    Hess struck a fist on the table. “Where the
hell is this coming from? Are you still upset about the nuclear war
last Iteration?”
    Elza grimaced. “No, Hess, that has nothing to
do with anything.”
    He stabbed a finger at her. “You made me
swear to never forget you!”
    “Because I couldn't live without you. That's
the difference here, Hess. I'm not asking you to live without me.
What I want is the same mercy the people are granted every world. I
want to cease being.”
    “Why?”
    Elza stared at him.
    “Why, Elza? What possible reason could you
have for wanting to die?”
    “Didn't you want to die when you were
Zack?”
    “I wasn't myself.”
    “But you remember it. That's how I feel,
Hess. Don't you remember what I told you after I abducted you last
Iteration?”
    Hess hated remembering the five years he had
spent suppressing his deep memories, the time he had lived under
the identity of Zack Vernon. After he had escaped from Erik, he had
gone back to his trailer and encountered Elza. During their initial
conversation, after he revealed he wanted to die, she had responded
by saying “We don't die, Zack. Not ever. Not even when it's the
only thing we want.”
    “We were happy,” he said.
    Elza's eyes misted. “Happier than I thought
possible.”
    “I suppose I should thank you for pretending
I was more than a distraction.” Hess got to his feet. “On second
thought, never mind. None of it matters because we're being
killed.”
    He slammed the door on his way out of the
house.
     
     

Chapter 13 - Erik / Iteration 2
    He took the name
Mott as he entered the village. Mott. The name of a man who had
been mauled by a lion and survived . . . for a time. It had been an
entertaining, if short, show. He had watched the man named Mott beg
for help, then try to drag his mangled body to safety when he
realized the only witness intended to do no more than watch.
    Mott readied his usual questions. Had they
seen a pale man traveling with a beautiful woman? Which of the
nearby villages was largest? Had anyone heard talk of someone
creating the world?
    While trying to find someone to answer his
questions, Mott stumbled upon an interesting scene. A dozen women
swarmed over one of their number, shrieking a strident chorus of
“no, Beeta, no!” as they restrained her. Even as the events
unfolded, the village elders emerged from the guest pavilion to
make ineffective soothing motions with their hands.
    His questions died unasked. Something much
more interesting than following cold trails was happening here.
Dark memories stirred. A world ago, he had been a shapely woman in
the midst of a swarm of men, beaten and taken with wild force. He
had taken his vengeance upon each of those men after, striking from
the dark and planting evidence to frame their own brothers of the
deed.
    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