Free Beyond Redemption by Michael R. Fletcher

have them escaping somewhere I can’t deal with them immediately.”
    â€œBut if the mirror is in another room where you are not, your reflections will not be there either.”
    Konig spun on his heel and left the room, slamming the door closed behind him. Aufschlag stood staring at the reflection of a dozen Konigs and himself.
    When had his nose become so bulbous and the veins so broken and red? How did these things creep up on you?
    He stared at the mirror, watching as the reflected Konigs turned their backs to him and their attention to his own solitary reflection.
    It was so easy, he mused, to forget one’s age when not confronted by a mirror . In his head he thought of himself as nineteen but was almost sixty. He examined the rotund body, the receding chin, the greasy tufts of hair by his ears, and the glistening dome of his skull. He looked seventy, if not eighty.
    This work ages me too quickly . He rubbed at his nose and marveled—mostly in disgust—at the size and depth of the pores. I should drink less . A dry croak of a laugh escaped and he choked it down.
    Think not of the cost but of the goal. When the child Ascended, Aufschlag would be repaid for his many sacrifices.
    Konig’s reflections suddenly launched themselves at his own unresisting reflection and attacked it with teeth and fists. Aufschlag fled the room. Gods only knew what that meant. Did Konig truly hate him so?
    Konig stood waiting in the hall. “So?” demanded the High Priest.
    Aufschlag shook his head.
    Konig gestured toward the stairs. “Come, we are needed.”
    THE MESSENGER, A young and whip-thin Geborene priest, awaited them in the great hall. His gray acolyte’s robes were caked in the dust of the road, his eyes red with exhaustion. The acolyte ignored the towering domed ceiling and great marble pillars as he ignored the rows of defaced statues of long-forgotten gods. He had eyes only for Konig. The acolyte fell to his knees, touching his forehead to Konig’s slippered feet. A considerable quantity of dust rained from his hair and onto those fine slippers.
    Konig glared down at the back of the acolyte’s head. “Rise and report.”
    The acolyte rocked back and rose to his feet in one smooth and effortless motion. Aufschlag, standing to the right and onepace behind Konig, knew a moment of jealousy. He remembered being able to move like that.
    The acolyte bowed again to Konig and nodded to Aufschlag. “High Priest, I bring word from the Mitteldirne temple.”
    â€œMitteldirne?”
    â€œYes, sir, the capital of Gottlos.”
    â€œI know where Mitteldirne is,” snapped Konig. “What’s the damned news?”
    The acolyte bowed in apology and then frowned at the pile of dust on Konig’s slippers. He swallowed uncomfortably, looking like he wanted to apologize, but not wanting to further annoy the Theocrat. “Bishop Bombastisch of the . . .” The young priest looked up and met Konig’s unblinking gray eyes. He opened his mouth but issued no sound.
    â€œI know who Bombastisch is. I made her Bishop of Mitteldirne.”
    â€œYes, Sir. Unbrauchbar—”
    â€œI know where that is too.”
    Aufschlag’s stomach soured. He’d sent Wegwerfen, the young priestess Konig had commanded him to kill, to Unbrauchbar. Anything directing Konig’s attention there could be bad news indeed. If the High Priest discovered his scientist disobeyed an order . . . Aufschlag, thinking of Konig’s reflections tearing his own apart, shuddered at the thought.
    â€œSir.” The acolyte glanced again at the dusty slippers before continuing. “The priests of the Unbrauchbar temple have been slain. All of them. The temple staff as well.”
    Aufschlag choked down a cough of surprise. He’d risked his life to save Wegwerfen and still she’d died? Gods, he was a fool!
    â€œSlain. By whom?” demanded Konig.
    â€œWe don’t