[Demonworld #6] The Love of Tyrants

by Kyle B. Stiff

  “Nanomachines,” Wodan muttered, feeling like a primitive hearing talk of guns and refrigerators.

  “They were used to create your sword, too. And this Tower is swarming with them. Any intruder could be incinerated with little trouble.”

  “Incinerated…?”

  “Ye-e-es, that’s right, the lion's fire. Y'diamach is also surrounded by a cloud of self-replicating nanomachines that are under his direct control.”

  “So is he-”

  “Patience. We were speaking of Lucas.” Setsassanar spun the star map around. As soon as Wodan realized he was doing it merely to pass time, he continued speaking. “Lucas, then. You might have already guessed much of the narrative. Every few hundred years I send out Robot Number Six – Black – who, despite his diminutive size, is quite intimidating. When seen in the outside world, he is almost always described as an angel. You already know that he is equipped with drugs that induce unconsciousness. With his nimble fingers he surgically extracts an egg from the… participant, brings it to me so that I can put my genetic template in the egg, then returns it to my blushing virgin bride so she can bear my all-too-human clone.”

  Wodan knew that only a few weeks or days ago he would have recoiled in horror. While he still couldn't imagine doing such a thing, he was also becoming used to the feeling of being shocked by Setsassanar's actions.

  “Why force someone into going along with something they most likely wouldn't agree to? And why a virgin?”

  “For the sake of awe. Mythology is full of stories of virgin births. Or rather, births resulting from mingling with gods.”

  “But why not find an older, more mature person who could make the decision whether or not-”

  “Because most older humans are little more than indoctrinated automatons. They have been put through so many mind control gauntlets that they become two-dimensional characters living not a real life, but a constructed narrative. Springing an unexpected divine apparition on such a person would damage them or cause undue stress – not awakening. At least a young person can face the strange circumstance of a virgin birth with open eyes. They find themselves in a new narrative… my narrative. Rather than be an empty and expectant vessel who eventually finds themselves filled with foolish ideas, unconscious habits, and blind to the world because they see only definitions rather than things, my so-called victims take part in a play involving gods, ideas, hope, a life of meaning, the thrill of the unknown, the rush of living by risking death at the hands of the authorities. I do not take advantage of young girls. I give them a life outside of the ordinary. Is that a curse, Apprentice, or a blessing?”

  “But… but why would you do such a thing? How would you… how would you even have the idea to do such a thing?”

  Setsassanar thought for a long time, then finally he looked at Wodan. “As the years go by, you… Wodan, you will become more and more like me. Your drives will become more complicated, and the things that drive you now, the things that seem so important to you, will then seem childish. You will become less and less human. I'm sorry. It will make more and more sense to see humanity as an unformed blob of potential. Ideas like respecting the dignity of others, or protecting people from pain… will seem less real. But I don't spread needless suffering. I tell a story with those people. I go to them as a messiah, a man who forgot he was a god, then remembered, then tried to tell others that they, too, are gods.”

  “That's what always happens?”

  Setsassanar nodded.

  “And the clone is always killed?”

  He nodded again. For once, Wodan could see hurt written in his face.

  “But why? Why do they kill him just because he…”

  Wodan trailed off and Setsassanar shook his head. “That's just… the place they're at. It's what they feel they have to do to protect themselves.”

  “You say you only give Lucas, or any of your human clones, vague intuitions. I find that hard to believe. Why do they all become essentially the same thing?”

  “It's our shared unconscious desire. The message changes slightly, as do the means. But not everyone is an empty vessel, Wodan. Not everyone is a radio spewing whatever noise the local culture broadcasts into them. You certainly aren't. I only did that during one lifetime, and that was when I was forced to. I...” Setsassanar laughed. “Lucas is the god I would have become if I'd been born merely human, rather than a post-human advertisement working for a corporate police-state.”

  “What do you think will happen to Lucas?” said Wodan, ignoring Setsassanar's black humor.

  “Don't think me cynical,” he said suddenly, staring down at him across the sand. “The cycle may be broken. Humans have never deviated before, but… they don't necessarily have to choose envy, smallness, weakness. Perhaps the humans will revere Lucas, and not Globulus. I don't know. I want to keep trying. Except...”

  “You're running out of time.”

  Setsassanar nodded. “With the flesh demons organized, I won’t be able to try again if Lucas fails. This is it.” Setsassanar shrugged and smiled. “But if humanity chooses sacrifice, then to hell with them. Who wants to kill someone and then worship his own guilt? It's foolish. You and me, Apprentice… if they do that, we'll enter into a state of war with demons and humans. Neither of them deserves the joy of living on Earth, anyway.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  It's Time You Knew

  The combat training room was widened and filled with pillars, trenches, and small towers. Master and Apprentice set teams of Robot Number Fours against one another; Wodan wore a communications head-set and relayed orders to his forces while Setsassanar knelt on a tower and meditated, dictating orders in his own way. Troops armored in steel waylaid one another, a game of chess played with hammer-blows and spilled oil.

  Sometimes the Master rose and gave lessons over the battlefield. “I have showed you how to think, but logic is only the first step, like a child groping after order. Make sure your first premise, your unstated premise, always comes from a position of strength! Life is a precious thing! Fight hard, Apprentice. If your thoughts are only a cloak that hides weakness, then you no longer deserve the gift of life!”

  Now Wodan and Setsassanar dueled in a ring of Robot Number Fours, Wodan probing with a spear while Setsassanar protected himself with two heavy daggers. When they fought face to face, everything seemed more real, more dangerous. Their battle had stretched on for well over an hour, and now their movements were slower, each energy expenditure more finely calculated. They had switched weapons many times. Wodan had already healed multiple fractures; the wounds were not wholly mended, but he could at least stay in the fight.

  Setsassanar was nowhere near tapping out. His speed, strength, endurance, and cunning were far beyond Wodan's level, but Wodan was proud that he could even stay alive during such a fight. It required greater concentration than he was used to giving any task, but he was becoming accustomed to giving more and more of himself and then finding out he had still more to give.

  Just then Setsassanar dodged a spear-thrust – or rather, danced around it – and shattered the spear with a well-placed blow. Instead of pushing the attack, he withdrew. Both were breathing heavily.

  “Switch weapons,” said Setsassanar, nodding to robots who presented the two with long polearms topped with wicked axe-heads.

  “Master,” said Wodan, “when can I see Langley again?”

  Setsassanar tested the weight of his weapon. “Any time you like.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course.” Setsassanar stopped suddenly. “We've been going at it for a long time, haven't we?”

  “Yes...”

  “What do you think about a break?”

  “Great idea!”

  “Good. I'll take one, then.” Setsassanar retreated quickly as several robots leaped on top of one another and transformed into two whirling, shrieking steel demons intent on killing Wodan. He was already exhausted, but had to fight. He settled into a defensive stance and kept him
self positioned so that the two automatons were always in one another's way. In the corner of his eye he saw Setsassanar sitting and enjoying a drink while SexBot fanned him.

  “You're not the child you once were,” said Setsassanar. “You can visit your precious Dove Langley anytime you like. Assuming you survive this fight, of course.”

  ***

  Wodan nearly tripped as he entered the elevator. “My room,” he said. “Hurry.”

  He placed a hand on the wall to steady himself. He knew that he would probably never visit Langley again. He was too weak, and hated himself for it.

  He collected his thoughts as the elevator took him away. It would have been better to forget. Instead, he thought about what had happened only moments before.

  On the ride to see her, he had wrestled with a scalding brew of emotions. He wanted to help her, but he didn't want to challenge Setsassanar so much that it would jeopardize his training. Like a child he wanted to tell her how well he was doing, and how things might not be as bad as they seemed, and yet he could already feel himself bracing defensively at her accusations. He didn't know what to do besides disappoint her and himself.

  When he'd arrived, he saw her sitting in a binding circle in a brightly-lit room filled with flowers. Even in the Valley he had never seen such an array of vivid, dazzling colors. If it wasn't for the overpoweringly sweet smell, he might have been convinced that the entire thing was an illusion, some sort of hologram, because petals fell in a slow shower and, as they touched the black floor, they burned to cinders. Only the narrow path leading to Langley had any remaining petals, a sort of “rainbow bridge” through the chamber.

  “Wodan, it's you! So good to see you! Hello-o-o-o!”

  Wodan had been surprised by her reaction, her child-like demeanor as she stood waving at the edge of the circle. He approached quickly, glad and a little confused. He did not understand until he drew near.

  She clasped her hands together and stared up at his eyes, drinking in the sight of another human being. She talked, a flood of babbling ideas laced with past events, the noise an echo of a frantic and under-stimulated mind. Wodan stood inches away, trying to follow, trying to smile despite the awful realization that Langley was not who she once was.

  Just when the awful pain of this realization reached its height, the light of the binding circle on the floor blinked, then powered down. Langley fell silent as they both looked down. It seemed impossible. Was she truly free?

  Wodan inched his hand toward her. Her mouth fell open, then her hand darted quickly, stopped, and pulled back. As Wodan continued toward her she repeated the awkward gesture. He had never seen her so vulnerable.

  They locked eyes – and he saw panic.

  “Wodan, wait,” she said. “What if-”

  They heard a high-pitched whir, then the field came back on. The next thing Wodan remembered was crawling away from her, dazed, vision blurred. He took one last look at her and saw her turned away from him, sitting with knees tucked under her chin. Without another word, he left. Later, in the elevator, he pushed his confusion and anger deep into his heart.

  I have to get her out, he thought. Or she'll completely lose her mind.

  Wodan told himself that he could not fight Setsassanar, that he needed his training in order to change the world. Then a wave of nausea hit him as he realized that he might not be able to choose between the two. It was too hard; he could not choose.

  He loved them both.

  ***

  Wodan heard the door open and shut as someone entered. He covered himself, ran a hand through his hair, and prepared himself to not sound out of breath. Beside him, SexBot did not move, but lay still where she had fallen.

  The bed moved. In the darkness, he could make out the form of Setsassanar sitting nearby.

  “Well?” said Wodan.

  “I wanted to tell you something.”

  “Are you glad I finally used this ridiculous robot?”

  “Yes.” Setsassanar shrugged. “No.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I hoped it would be a more joyous event. Anyway, I wanted to tell you something, but I don't think I can. I need to show you. No, more than that.”

  Setsassanar stood and walked toward the entrance, his long black robe trailing behind him.

  “More than what?” said Wodan, casting about for his clothes.

  “Follow me. You need to feel what I felt.”

  Wodan quickly dressed and raced toward the door. Setsassanar was already far down the hall.

  “Felt?” Wodan shouted. “About what?”

  Setsassanar stopped. “We're getting close to the end. I need to show you the beginning.”

  ***

  Wodan and Setsassanar sat before a wide, newly-formed window in the Scry room. It was a bright blue night, with a full moon and piercing starlight shining down on rolling white dunes. Wodan watched as Setsassanar plucked at his own chest, pulled skin away to reveal a slit of exposed muscle, then pulled a thin wire free. He gently stroked the end until a small needle came forth.

  “What's that?” said Wodan. “Can't you just tell me the story, or show me a recording?”

  “No. Don't worry, you'll see images, mostly captured by Scry. But I want you to feel it from my perspective. Compassion is the path to understanding.”

  “Sounds like something Lucas might say.”

  Setsassanar smiled strangely. “Hold your mouth open for a moment.”

  “Why?” said Wodan, then complied.

  “Because I need to stick this needle in your tongue,” Setsassanar said as he grabbed the back of Wodan's neck and darted toward him.

  ***

  Wodan was in too many places at once. He was in the training room, although it seemed to be in multiple forms simultaneously, with and without platforms, with and without a moat. He was back in the blue Scry room, then in the warm tunnels radiating throughout the Tower. He even felt Langley as she moved about, felt her warm breath, her weight sitting on him, her heartbeat singing a low note. Then cold wind whispered in his ear and sand scraped against his skin. He was a tall, unmoving edifice with his uppermost parts hanging high in the heavens, looking over the world through eyes that blinked and crawled across the cold, black sky.

  He felt himself pulled through a reconstruction of times past. Long ago, before the Tower, before the demons, so long ago that the wasteland was a potential that only a few worried about. He saw shanty towns decorated with lurid advertisements, military-police roving in jeeps, grain bins overseen by men covered in absurd, futuristic armor like something out of a boy's fantasy. Less than one hundred years before this time, humanity had gone through a struggle that thinned its ranks and blighted the land, an apocalypse with its details lost in propaganda. One version of history said that the pioneers, the intellectuals, the warriors with a moral code, even the artists – all had left this world on a quest of exploration and vengeance. The weak and the brutal were left behind.

  He saw Setsassanar as a genetically engineered playboy advertising various products. His face shone with youthful glee alongside deodorant, phones, pharmaceutical drugs. Wodan could hear the modern-day Setsassanar speaking on top of the images. “I went along willingly when I was young. Why wouldn't I? I was provided with anything I wanted. I could go anywhere, meet anyone, have anything. My existence was advertisement for a better world. And don’t let anyone fool you: Inexhaustible material wealth and endless sensual pleasure goes a long, long way toward making one happy. Still...”

  Setsassanar sat in his penthouse apartment, hair in disarray and still in his pajamas even though it was in the middle of the day. He slowly rotated a ring on his finger and stared back at a group of important men – generals, businessmen, and politicians lounging awkwardly and trying to appear comfortable. They looked like swamp monsters shaped out of clay compared to the dashing, unkempt playboy. In a window behind the leaders stood other tall skyscrapers, though more than a few of them were empty, their rooms left dark.
<
br />   “Listen, my boy, we've got problems,” said one man that barely fit his fine suit. His mouth did not match the vocal translation provided for Wodan. “Mister Sanjara, if you don't get back in the studio...”

  “I'll advertise when I'm ready,” said Setsa. “I'm tired.”

  “Tired!” spat a military man, seemingly choking on the word. “Setsa, sir, you have no idea what we have to do to hold this mess together! Listen, we need you to push Big Buck Automotive. They're a small company, and without your backing, no one – no-o-o-o-o one – is going to give one solid shit. If you just... listen, if you just pose for one advert, that company will take off, and that means jobs, that means less people in the streets looking for quick-fixes, that means less unrest... Setsa, you-”

  “Get out,” said the playboy. “Leave me alone or I’ll advertise Westek Guns by blowing my brains out.”

  “Oh, damn you!” said another man, slapping his seat and forcing himself to stand in order to seem more imposing. “Setsa, where do you think the funding for all your habits comes from?! We can whip everything out from under you so fast that you'll… you'll be the first genetically engineered homeless bum who can't even-”

  “You idiots!” Setsassanar shouted. “Can't you see this isn't permanent? Give me some space, some breathing room, and in a week I'll go back to work out of sheer boredom! But if you push me I’ll stay away from the cameras just to spite you! Are you really so stupid that you need someone to tell you that?”