Agents of the Demiurge by Brian Blose Page A

to
art.”
    “What did you do to the poor
bananas?”
    “I froze them, pureed them, then added
vanilla and hazelnut milk.”
    Walter shook his head. “Sounds rather
unappetizing.”
    Hess shrugged. “If you don't care to try it,
you could pass your bowl to Theora. She seems to like it.”
    Elza gave him the first unguarded smile he
had seen from her since the world began. Hess settled back into his
seat and savored the moment.
    Her parents stayed another fifteen minutes,
then departed for home after Elza indicated she intended to stay.
The moment the door closed behind them, Elza spun on him. “What is
the fourth ingredient?”
    “Elza, I don't know what you're talking
about.”
    She advanced on him. “Bananas, vanilla
extract, hazelnut milk, and what else? Don't tell me there isn't
another ingredient. I've tried replicating your recipe a hundred
times at least.”
    “It's an eternal mystery,” he said. “Only I
know the secret.”
    “You had better tell me.”
    “I'm the only one who can make my banana
pudding.”
    Elza spun to Jerome. “Do you know?”
    The emaciated woman folded her arms. “I do
not. There are more important things to discuss at the moment, at
any rate.”
    “I'm sure your issue, whatever it is, can
wait,” she said on her way into the kitchen.
    Jerome's deep-set eyes glowed with
frustration. “Damn it, Hess. We can't afford to operate on our
usual timelines. We're no longer dealing with eternity.”
    Hess patted Jerome's shoulder gently, feeling
the sharp outlines of bird-like bones beneath parchment-thin skin.
He couldn't imagine what inhabiting such a body would be like. “You
told me your theory that our conflict gave the Creator a case of
split personality. Even if that is possible, it isn't something we
are in a position to immediately fix.”
    The sound of cupboards slamming came from the
kitchen. Hess sighed. “She's going to tear apart the kitchen, upend
my trash, and then refuse to clean up.”
    Jerome walked into the kitchen and raised her
voice. “I'm conducting a vote. The Creator wants to know if the
Observers should die at the end of this Iteration.”
     
     

Chapter 11 – Erik / Iteration 145
    He screamed and
wept, reacting to the pain and exhaustion and fear. The Punishers
of the Church always went about their job with fervor, utterly
convinced they were taking their vengeance upon the individual
responsible for their brother's death in a car accident, their
aunt's cancer prognosis, their girlfriend's infidelity, their bad
credit rating, and the fact that they stubbed their toe getting out
of bed that morning.
    They came in teams of three, rotating often
so that whoever worked on him was always fresh. The teams
themselves switched out several times a day. The Punisher on duty
now, a hulking brute complete with lopsided nose and knife scars,
beat Erik with a length of cast iron pipe. Suspended from the
ceiling by manacles clasped to his wrists and chained to the floor
by his ankles, Erik hung taught as a piano wire. Each time the pipe
struck, his body shifted the limited extent possible, causing his
bindings to dig into the flesh of his extremities.
    His ribs shattered time and again only to
reform. The time span between damage and repair was often long
enough that the brute could knock free fragments of bones and
organs to litter the cold cement floor. When the egg timer rang to
announce the end of another fifteen minute stretch, the brute
tossed the pipe aside and paused to catch his breath.
    Erik cried, unashamed, as the pain continued.
Bit by bit, it lessened as injuries vanished. The team began to
gather their implements, so they must be done with their shift.
When the last of the damage done to his body evaporated, leaving
him whole again, Erik began to laugh.
    “You fuckers don't know what you're doing.
Might as well be a group of school girls playing dolls.”
    The brute rushed forward and punched Erik in
the face. After, Erik grinned through the blood pouring