Beyond Redemption (7 page)

Theocracy is the art of thinking together.

—K
ONIG
F
URIMMER

T
he knight in the book Morgen read thought he was special. He certainly acted like he was special, though as far as Morgen could tell, he had yet to do anything of note. Sure, predictably enough the knight would eventually kill someone evil, but did this justify acting special
now
?

Everyone thought they were special, and maybe they were in some small way. Morgen couldn't be sure; a lot of people seemed awfully not special. But he
was
special. Superspecial, and he knew it. He would be a god.

Wait! Like the knight, I haven't yet done anything particularly special
. Was he special now, or would he be special later?

There was a quiet knock on the door and the High Priest entered his study room. Morgen smiled up at Konig, who stood ramrod straight, arms crossed. The High Priest stared at him for several seconds before returning the smile.
Strange how he does
that. It's like he has to decide to smile before anything happens on his face.

“How go your studies?” Konig asked, dropping the smile.

Morgen glanced at the bookshelf and the books arranged there in a complex system involving their age, the color of the spine, subject, author, and how much Morgen enjoyed reading them. Aufschlag always said they were random, but they weren't. Morgen grimaced at the books. The tome on the Menschheit Letzte Imperium . . . did its spine project just ever so slightly farther out than the other books? He leaned in and nudged it back.
There, better
. “Well,” Morgen answered finally. “Though this”—he held up the storybook he'd been reading—“probably doesn't count as study.”

Konig waved it away without looking at the book. “You'll learn something from everything you read. Not all knowledge is to be found in great tomes.”

That sounded wise. Could he truly learn something from even the lowest, most vulgar source?

“Am I special?” Morgen asked.

“Of course. You will be a god.”

“I
will
be a god. I'm not one yet. Am I special now?”

“Yes, if just because of your potential. No one else has what you have.”

“So my potential makes me special.”

“Yes.”

“My potential makes me special even if I don't Ascend?”

“You will Ascend.”

“But if I didn't?”

“You will,” Konig said, leaning forward to stare into Morgen's eyes.

Why does he always do that when he really wants me to believe something?

“But potential matters?” Morgen asked.

Konig stood straight again, seemingly content he'd achieved something. “Yes, of course.”

“So if I meet someone with great potential, they're special. Even if they never do anything with it.”

“I'm not sure I'd word it like—”

“What kind of god will I be?”

The Theocrat blinked, eyebrows crinkling inward. “The right kind.”

“What does that mean?”

“You'll be the god the Geborene need.”

That made sense. Their faith made him a god and so their faith would shape that god. He'd be what they thought he was.

“What kind of god do the people think I will be?” Morgen asked.

“The right kind.”

Was this true? It did make sense.
Why would the people want the wrong kind of god?

“What kind of god do the people want?”

“The right kind.”

It made sense as an answer, but Morgen still felt something was missing.

“Once I become a god, all my decisions will be perfect and godlike?”

“It is not being a god which makes one perfect. The old gods are fallible. We will end all that.”

“Fablible?”

“
Fallible
. They make mistakes. The old gods caused more death and misery than . . .” Konig didn't finish.

More death and misery than what?

“I can't be fallible. I must be perfect.” He checked his hands, examining each fingernail. They were clean. Spotless. “I'll be a perfect god. Clean and mighty.”

Konig glanced at Morgen's hands and his eyebrows did that crinkly thing again. “You will be perfect.”

Morgen wanted to say more, but Konig awkwardly ruffled his hair, said something about having business to attend to, and left.

“I'm going to make the other gods behave right,” Morgen told the empty room. “The way gods are
supposed
to behave.”

He'd told Aufschlag about his plan and the Chief Scientist said it was a good one, and a great gift for Konig. Aufschlag also said Konig didn't like bragging and the best thing Morgen could do would be to show him rather than telling him. So it was their secret, his and Aufschlag's, until he Ascended.

Morgen scowled at the book on the Menschheit Letzte Imperium. It sat too far back, leaving a small imperfection marring the beauty of his aligned books. Should he move the others back, or slide it forward? After several minutes' contemplation, Morgen pulled it forward.

Most only dare tread the waters of insanity at night as they lie dreaming. Cowards. Dive deep into your psychopathy. Let loose the demons of delusion and know, in the end, when they finally devour you, you swam with sharks.

—V
ERSKLAVEN
S
CHWACHE
, G
EFAHRGEIST
P
HILOSOPHER

A
ufschlag concluded his report on Morgen's progress and stood waiting. The High Priest paced the room, his Doppels nowhere to be seen, for which the scientist was grateful. They made him nervous with their obvious hatred and mistrust. Gods only knew what they whispered in Konig's ear in Aufschlag's absence.

Still, behind Konig, his many reflections filled the surface of the huge mirror. Faces and fingers pressed that thin boundary between realities, desperate for escape. Aufschlag wasn't sure when the High Priest had become Comorbidic—developing multiple delusions—but he knew Comorbidity to be a sure sign that
the end grew near. Konig's delusions grew in strength and numbers and most probably out of his control.

The Chief Scientist swallowed his fear. Without Konig, the Geborene would be lost. The boy must Ascend in time to save the High Priest; he had to. In the back of his mind Aufschlag could almost remember—just moments before he'd entered Konig's chambers—hoping Morgen would Ascend
after
Konig's death. Here, in the powerful Gefahrgeist's presence, such treasonous thoughts became impossible.

Konig caught sight of the mirror and stopped pacing. “Sometimes I think I can hear their voices.”

The reflections turned to face him as if they'd heard his words.

“Perhaps we should destroy it,” Aufschlag suggested.

“No,” said Konig, staring at his reflections. “Mirrorist powers would be useful. Who knows what my reflections might show. Perhaps the future. Maybe I will see events transpiring all around the world.”

“Have they shown you anything yet?” Aufschlag asked.

Konig turned away from the mirror, his shoulders sagging. “No. Not yet.”

“Perhaps we can move it to another room?”

“No, I can't have them escaping somewhere I can't deal with them immediately.”

“But 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 one
pace 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.”

“Mitteldirne?”

“Yes, sir, the capital of Gottlos.”

“I 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.

“I know who Bombastisch is. I made her Bishop of Mitteldirne.”

“Yes, Sir. Unbrauchbar—”

“I 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.

“Sir.” 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!

“Slain. By whom?” demanded Konig.

“We don't know, Theocrat. Bishop Bombastisch tried to send you a dream message direct but found four of you and countless shadows. She couldn't be sure which was the real you and felt
it safer to dispatch me to guarantee you and you alone got the message.”

“You rode from Mitteldirne? Bombastisch is a fool! She wasted critically important time.”

Aufschlag's guts boiled with acid. Konig would send people to the temple in Unbrauchbar to investigate. They'd report everything, including the names of the dead. Konig would know of Aufschlag's betrayal. The scientist stared at the Theocrat's back.

Kill him. Kill him now before he learns of Wegwerfen
.

The acolyte swallowed his fear. “Sir, Bishop Bombastisch is a powerful Intermetic. She swapped me for someone she knew—a nephew, I believe—who lives on the outskirts of Selbsthass. This isn't my usual body. I was able to bring you the message in little more than a day.”

Konig turned gray eyes on Aufschlag and the acolyte looked like he'd just disappointed his father. Or his god. Aufschlag, who had been thinking dark thoughts of murder, found himself suddenly unable to think about anything other than those gray eyes. They were empty like death.

“Could it be the Wahnvor Stellung?” Konig asked Aufschlag. “Could this be the beginning of a bigger attack?”

Konig never failed to surprise Aufschlag; his questions cut straight to the meat of the issue. He saw what no one else saw. Such a thought had not even occurred to Aufschlag. The man's mind was nothing short of amazing. He was a genius! How could Aufschlag have entertained thoughts of violence?

He considered Konig's question. Wahnvor Stellung was the single greatest religion, its temples found in virtually every city-state. If the Wahnvor knew what the Geborene planned, they would definitely seek to put an end to the project. But this didn't fit. The religion was massive; they had the strength and faith of vastly superior numbers and were confident in their reality. Why would they attack such a pitiful little church as the one in Gottlos?

“It's possible,” said Aufschlag, “but I don't think so.”

“What of the Täuschung?” Konig asked.

“Their following seems confined to the east,” answered Aufschlag, surprised the Theocrat had even heard of the ancient sect. “I think they're based in Geldangelegenheiten. They rarely proselytize, haven't grown or changed in thousands of years, and seem more intent on sending souls to their deranged idea of an Afterdeath. ‘Swarm,' I believe they call it. They claim there is only one true god, whose sole task is to govern and maintain the rules defining . . .” Aufschlag realized Konig stared at him with growing impatience. “Probably not the Täuschung,” he finished lamely.

Konig stood motionless, tall and gaunt, eyes hooded like a bird of prey. No one spoke, waiting for the words of the High Priest.

“Our project threatens everything the Wahnvor believe. When we succeed, everyone will know we have always been right; the gods did not create us, we created them. Their religion will die. If it is not the Wahnvor, we have a new enemy. One we did not previously know of. A much more dangerous enemy.” Konig took a deep breath and released it slowly. “I must know for sure.” He spun to face the acolyte, who flinched. “Were the Unbrauchbar priests tortured?”

“Most died quickly, throats cut as they went about their duties or lay sleeping.”

“But we don't know for sure.”

The acolyte opened his mouth to answer but Konig turned away. “I must know what our enemies know. Aufschlag, bring me Gehirn Schlechtes. I will send the Hassebrand. She will bring me answers.”

Aufschlag stifled a groan of terror. Gehirn was a lunatic, on the edge of losing control of her delusions, unstable and dangerous. People too long in her presence had a habit of suddenly dropping
dead. Surprisingly, fewer burst into flames than Aufschlag would expect; her delusions were far more insidious.

And yet he dared not refuse Konig's request. The Chief Scientist swallowed his fear and excused himself from the proceedings. Gehirn was sure to be found lurking like a damp slug in the deepest bowels of the church.

AUFSCHLAG FOUND THE
Hassebrand, as expected, in the church's basement. The woman towered a full head over the Chief Scientist but was far too fat and soft to be physically threatening. It wasn't her physical presence that scared him, it was what went on in that twisted mind. Icy blue eyes on a surprisingly girlish face watched him with hungry interest. She was almost bald, having once again burned her hair to patchy red stubble. He'd never seen her eyebrows and had no idea if she shaved them, couldn't grow any, or burned them off.

Did she do it on purpose,
Aufschlag wondered,
or did her own fires sometimes break from her increasingly tenuous control?

Even here, in the darkest, coolest part of the church, Gehirn's robes were sodden, her face bathed in a sheen of sweat. The Hassebrand wore the deep burgundy of a Geborene Bishop even though she held no such rank. The lack of eyebrows gave her an eternally surprised look.

Gehirn lifted her lips, showing pronounced canines. Aufschlag couldn't tell if it was a smile, a sneer, or a snarl. Still, it looked out of place in such a childish face.

“Konig sends me his pet scientist,” she said.

Aufschlag ignored the bait, pretending to examine the sweating face with concern. “You look ill. Jaundiced.”

Gehirn twitched, blinked rapidly, and frowned suspiciously at Aufschlag. “Someone is poisoning me.”

“No doubt. You show signs of impending liver failure.”

“They won't get me so easily. I am—” Gehirn dug into a fold in
her robes and drew out a handful of faded seeds, nuts, and pocket lint. “I am tricky. Self-sufficient. Impenetrable.” She picked at the food before shoving it back into the hidden pocket.

“Very smart. Of course those nuts come from . . . somewhere, don't they?” Aufschlag ignored the Hassebrand's darting look. “Konig wants you in his chambers. Now. He has work for you.”

Aufschlag fled the basement as best he could without looking like he was fleeing.

There was a soft knock at the door and Konig, working at his desk, glanced up. “Yes?”

Selbstmörderisch cracked the door open and peeked her head in. A member of his personal cadre of bodyguards, Selbstmörderisch was a Comorbidic. She was both Dysmorphic and Mehrere, grotesquely muscled and usually appearing as two very different—but equally muscular—women.

“Your Holiness, Gehirn Schlechtes is here to see you,” she announced with a surprisingly soft voice.

“Show her in.”

The Hassebrand, ignoring Selbstmörderisch as if she were beneath notice, ducked her head to clear the doorway and stood, swaddled in heavy robes, before the High Priest. The massive windows had been shuttered for this meeting but the smell of cooking meat still emanated from the fat woman. While she was arguably the most powerful member of the Geborene priesthood, Gehirn's instability made her dangerous. As such, Konig always handled her carefully. He showed his warmest smile as Gehirn entered.