by Brian Blose
His self-satisfied smirk faded as he glanced at his audience. “What? All of you think I'm wrong? Is that it? I'm not.” He pointed at Mel. “Afraid of eternity.” San. “Afraid of boredom.” Ingrid. “Afraid of pain.” Greg. “Afraid of Erik.” He smirked at them. “You're all afraid of something.”
“Hold on a sec,” Erik said. “Not everyone's got a case of scaredy pants syndrome. Yours truly ain't scared of nothing. Anyone remember last Iteration? I had to take my own medicine for years and I never let it bother me much. Hell, those punishers were more afraid of me than I was of them. When the posse came by to save my ass, I smack-talked 'em so bad they almost left me behind. So you see, shit-for-brains, I'm not scared.”
Drake's shoulders drooped and he licked his lips. “Actually, that's not true, Erik. You're afraid to die.”
For a moment, Erik froze, his face eerily empty. Then he threw a snarl at Drake. “That's not fear. I'm pissed off, you idiot.”
Natalia perked up, spinning in her chair to look Erik in the eye. “You're not afraid of death?”
“Course not, you dumb twat.”
A look of pure condescension touched Natalia's face before her features fell back into the absent-minded bemusement that was their custom. “Very well, then.”
“Very well, then,” Erik mimicked.
Elza interjected herself into the conversation before Erik could continue. “A couple of flaws. First, you're generalizing from a sample of one. While the rest of us take into account to some extent how our perspective skews our interpretation of others’ mental states, you don't appear to be making that effort. You can't assume that other people's minds work the same as yours. Second, the fact that everyone has fear does not prove fear is the fundamental emotion. Without evidence of a causal relationship, you are committing a non sequitur.”
Drake shook his head. “You just don’t want to believe that your thing with Hess isn’t special. Lasting so long together just means both of you are crazy insecure. What do you think love is? How do you describe your relationship?”
“As none of your business,” Elza said.
Erik chuckled to himself, but kept silent.
“Anyone can answer,” Drake said. “I don’t have all that much to say, really. But if everyone’s so sure I’m wrong, then try to tell me what love is besides fear.”
Chairs creaked as faces unanimously reoriented towards Hess. He sighed. “I suppose I’ve been nominated. What is love? Honestly, I have no idea. But I can tell you that it sure as hell isn’t an escape from fear. Loving someone is the most terrifying thing you can do. It leaves you vulnerable in ways I doubt any of you could imagine. It’s deciding to live for someone else and putting their happiness above your own. It’s tangling up your identities to the point where you don’t even know who you are without referencing the other.”
“That’s all bull,” Drake said. “You’re thinking about it wrong. Just because you’re scared of doing something doesn’t mean you’re not more scared not to do it. You might even do the thing that scares you more by mistake. It’s all twisted up, remember.”
Hess shook his head. “It sounds like your theory has a built-in defense mechanism. Any dissenting opinion is wrong because our minds are too twisted to understand our own emotions. I learned the hard way over the years that any idea that cherry picks its evidence is most likely a folly with delusions of grandeur.”
Drake scowled at Hess. “You think it’s my fault you can’t disprove my idea?”
“Of course he doesn’t,” Elza snapped. “You presented us a tidy little tautology dressed up as philosophy and now you are being evasive when questioned. The burden of proof is on you. And referencing your theory as evidence of your theory doesn’t count.”
“Why do you get to make the rules? This is my presentation.”
“I didn’t make the rules of logic. I don’t think even the Creator has the ability to change how causality works. You’ll have to resign yourself to playing by the rules of reality.”
Drake folded his arms in silent protest.
“I suppose that ends this session,” Greg said. “Let’s take a half-hour break.”
Chapter 11 – Drake / Iteration 1
The intruders picked through his possessions as he watched them from his hiding place. They took everything of value, including the ramshackle tent that held the rest, then departed.
He climbed down from the tree to inventory what remained. Not much. The supply of acorns, pine nuts, and tubers he had stockpiled for winter were gone. As were the blankets, the fire-bow, and even his collection of pretty rocks. All that remained to him were the frame of his tent and a stack of firewood.
It was forty summers since the start of the world, and he had not aged a single day. His body still presented itself as the child of fifteen summers it had been on the first day. A malnourished and stunted fifteen summers that people often mistook for even younger.
His original tribe had driven him away when he failed to mature. They had apologized one moment and threatened retribution should he ever return the next. He hadn't tested their goodwill, instead hiking away from their lands.
The first tribe he encountered killed him as a foreigner. He learned his lesson and avoided people after that. He figured he had observed enough already. The Creator could send him into a nicer world if watching people was so important.
He died many more times on his own. Once from wolves. Three times from the weather. At least ten times from accidents.
The second tribe he encountered took him captive, cut off his manhood, and made him work for them. They made him do both men's work and women's work since they thought he was neither. He hid the fact that his flesh had regrown. For seven summers, he stayed with that tribe. They worked him to exhaustion and taunted him daily, but at least he had food.
Then a man took him to bed and discovered he was whole. They cut him apart again, then checked him the next morning. Amazed, the tribe butchered him to consume his healing properties. He escaped before they realized he didn't stay dead.
The third tribe he encountered killed him in passing. The fourth tribe he encountered only threw rocks at him until he ran away. The fifth tribe he encountered stole his possessions while he watched.
He did not want to encounter a sixth tribe. With no worthwhile possessions left to him and his campsite discovered, he chose a direction and walked. Starting over was hard, but he could do it. He would need to live in a lean-to of sticks stacked against a tree until he collected enough hides for a tent. The forests produced plenty of food in warm weather, so he would be fine once the cold departed. He could build his camp in a thicket again so people had trouble sneaking up on him.
He just wished the people had not stolen his pretty rocks. A lot of them were regular smooth river rocks, but there had been a blue one streaked through with sparkling yellow that he really liked. And another with bands of purple and red. Maybe he would find another one of those blue rocks. If not, the Creator would probably make more of them in the next world.
Chapter 12 – Hess
Ingrid sat erect as they reclaimed their seats. She waited until everyone gave her their attention before speaking. “I intend to take the conversation in a different direction than what we’ve heard so far. No offense intended to Griff, Mel, or Drake, but their presentations reeked of complaints. Weariness of life informed my vote to die, but I generally approve of the Creator’s work. I have no problem with the worlds themselves. My only objection is to immortality.
“I stopped being an effective Observer tens of Iterations past. Making myself care grew into a labor beyond my strength. When I started to seek out comfort instead of insight, I became unfit for duty. It’s a simple case of wear and tear. I imagine a torn O-ring appreciates the dignity of being retired and replaced so that the host mechanism may continue.
“Before my usefulness lapsed, I studied a wide array of things. One in particular represents the soul of my work. I approach every world as a battleground of ideologies.
Iteration one gave us primitive tribes. Iteration two showed us communistic villages. The city-states of Iteration three surprised everyone. Then the islands of four. Five introduced us to machines and large-scale agriculture. Six had desert nomads. Seven was our first diversely-featured world, featuring elements from every world before it. Eight gave us the internet for the first time.
“I could continue for hours. My point is that each world presented something new, or a new combination of old things. The interactions drew my attention. Every time two things come into conflict, the potential for discovery exists. Sometimes you can only learn about something through contrast with other things.
“How many of us loved the second Iteration the first years? Its beauty lay in the contrast with the previous world. Once the horrors of our past were more distant, we all came to despise the monotony of life in villages where nothing serious ever happened. The juxtaposition taught us more than the experiences in isolation ever could.
“The greatest conflict happens not within our minds, but between the people of a world. All of you know I love warfare. I've waxed poetic on many occasions about the contest of wit, strength, endurance, determination, and skill. No doubt everyone is tired of hearing about military strategy. Should that not be the case, feel free to let me know later.”
Ingrid almost smiled before resuming her remarks. “Warfare remains my favorite form of contest to observe, but all forms of cultural conflict provide valuable insights. Possibly the most profound of these is the struggle between cultures primarily practicing virtue ethics and cultures primarily practicing consequentialist ethics.
“For the benefit of anyone not familiar with the terminology, virtue ethics emphasize individual character while consequentialist systems hold that the ends justify the means. I have a particular fondness for virtue ethics, but these systems are less enduring than the alternatives. My eventual conclusion was that virtues were too rigid. They couldn't adapt to innovations as easily.
“Of course, others would argue – probably will, knowing Elza – that adhering to strict morals is a tactical weakness. My counter is that the strategic advantage outweighs the tactical disadvantage. Cultures with higher trust waste less effort, which allows members of society to further cultivate their better traits.
“The problematic innovations are things like sabotage, terrorism, and guerrilla warfare. The most effective response to such distasteful methods is disproportionate retribution, especially when the targets are innocent members of the enemy population.
“Thus, the best part of the people dies or is abandoned in favor of the worst. There is a lesson there. Either the people choose the wrong virtues. Or survival – of the person or the ideal – isn't the ultimate good. Which took me entirely too long to realize, considering the fact that I regularly witness the end of universes.”
Ingrid folded both hands on the table. “That's all I have to present.”
Kerzon leaned forward, face dead serious. “I'm going to beat Drake to it. You're obviously afraid of Elza.”
Across the table, Drake erupted into a staccato squirrel giggle. “Screw you, Kerzon.”
Kerzon winked. “You'll have to buy me a drink first.”
When Drake's expression became contemplative, Jerome turned to Elza. “What are your criticisms this time?”
“Ingrid gave a coherent presentation free of obvious fallacies. I see no reason to belittle the only person who hasn't wasted my time.”
Griff snorted. “After the way you ripped me yesterday, you better criticize something.”
“Go ahead,” Ingrid said, “I'm actually curious about what you might say.”
“If you are going to insist, then I suppose there is one thing. I question the significance of your observations. You investigated a minor intersection of ethics and sociology. That seems worthy of a conversation over a bottle of wine, but hardly something worthy of presentation as your ultimate contribution.”
Ingrid sank back into her chair.
“Any other questions?” Greg waited a full minute. “Then I will see all of you tomorrow.”
Chapter 13 – Ingrid / Iteration 1
She ground the seeds with two rocks, her back to the group of raucous men and subdued women. Lude lounged among the hunters, pride beaming from his broad face, no doubt reflecting upon his conquests of the day. First he had killed a dozen unarmed men. Then he had received a public reward in the form of an amorous Ingrid throwing herself at the new top man.
Ingrid knew a lot about pleasing men. She knew how to tease their expectations prior to the act. She knew how to control the tempo to bring them close to completion, then bring them back from the edge, to approach and hold back until a single squeeze of her insides caused them to explode. She knew how to flatter their egos with words and expressions.
Lude was well pleased as he reclined in the soft grass.
No doubt he had expected a less enthusiastic reception from the women after ambushing their men at a peace meeting. Instead, he had been courted and bedded as a hero and now relaxed as his new woman cooked a meal for him, apparently eager for the status of being owned by the top man of the tribe.
When the seeds were finely ground, she swept them into the mixture of water and acorn flour and stirred. She poured thin patties onto hot rocks pre-greased with the fat of a doe. Then she returned her attention to the meat being smoked above the fire in a wicker basket. She had cut the meat as thin as possible with a flint blade, then pre-cooked it closer to the flames using green wood skewers. Now it smoked while wrapped around a mash of starchy root vegetable that would bring a hint of sweetness to it.
To Ingrid's mind, even more impressive than cooking an entire meal herself was coordinating everything to finish at the same time. The men would be able to eat bread and meat and squash all at once in a great feast.
Bree, one of the other women, approached the fire, her sullen eyes fixed upon Ingrid.
“Leave,” Ingrid said.
“My son is hungry.”
“Your son is a boy. These mighty hunters eat first.”
Bree's discontented gaze drifted to the pile of cooking discards hidden beneath the doe's hide. She bent to touch the remnants of a green plant, her fingers stroking the hairy stalk. Bree's eyes flashed up to Ingrid's, her jaw going slack.
“This food is not for your son,” Ingrid said. And Bree nodded, a kaleidoscope of fear and hope rising to her face. The woman may not be the most competent at the fires, but she knew enough to distinguish poison hemlock from carrot.
When the food was done, Ingrid portioned it out on rough wooden planks and presented it to the men – Lude first and then the other men in order of decreasing size. Each of the men took the offered plate and devoured sweet and savory meat, cubed squash, and crisp bread. Ingrid brought forth an obsequious smile as she watched them eat meat sweetened by hemlock root, squash cooked with leaves of hemlock, and bread filled with hemlock seeds.
A single mouthful should be sufficient to kill a man. Each of the men consumed more than a single bite of their feast. Ingrid studied the various men as she wore her false smile and shifted her grip on the flint blade's handle. She recognized most of the hunters in the group. They had eaten among this tribe in the past as honored guests and hosted hunters from Ingrid's tribe in turn. Those she didn't recognize were young, except for one. That lone stranger crouched among the others, studying everything around him with a vicious intensity, occasionally joining in the revelry of his peers to make some comment or other that drew forth bursts of laughter.
Killers, all of them. She would have permitted their actions to go unpunished if they had done the killing in an honorable manner. Instead, they used trickery to take down unarmed men – men who considered them brothers.
Ingrid's smile-lines deepened as the men began to show symptoms, falling down or cradling their heads. Dizziness came first. Then weakness. Then the breath stopped. She observed the first stages, bending over the men to look them in the eyes and sli
ce their throats before the poison could complete its job.
She saved Lude for last. His breath already came shallow when she met his eyes. “You are killed by a woman,” she whispered as the sawed his neck open. “This is what happens to kin-slayers and backstabbers.”
Around the perimeter of the camp, the other woman stared at her in silence. They could not be happy at the deaths of the men when that meant their tribe no longer had any hunters. Nor could they be sad at the deaths of those who had killed their lovers. Emptiness, she decided. That was what she read in their expressions.
As she watched, the women startled, their eyes looking past Ingrid. She turned to see one of the men sitting up. It was the one she had not recognized before. He looked around at the corpses of his comrades and laughed. He winked at Ingrid. “Now that was something else. I've been watching people a long time and never saw something like that happen. What did you feed us, woman?”
Ingrid studied the unbroken flesh of his neck. She remembered slicing it, freeing rivers of red to stain his beard and chest. No blood lingered anywhere on him. She blinked. “Observer.”
His smirk melted into perplexity. “You too?”
“Did you encourage Lude's attack?” She hefted the blade in her hand.
“You're the one causing trouble. I just watch the people.”
Ingrid studied him a minute, unable to read past the bored apathy he projected. “Watch the people somewhere else. This is my tribe.”
“I'm the man here. I'll stay if I want. Might make you my woman too.”
She squinted at him, head tilting to the side. He looked like he knew how to fight. Of course, so did she. “Try.”
For a moment, his eyes weighed her. Then he shrugged. “I've got more interesting things to watch.” He got to his feet and backed away from her. “What is your name, woman?”
“I'm called Ingrid in this tribe.”
He continued backing away. “I'm Kerzon. Maybe we'll meet again some day.”