Slumrat Rising

Truth was in a thoughtful mood as he once again guarded a conference. This was a much smaller gathering, he was told, focused primarily on researching agricultural techniques without magical support. A few test fields had been trialed, and the results were disastrous. This, however, was not what had his attention.

Etenesh, as predicted by both Merkovah and the System, had been delighted to learn Truth was a virgin and was taking to his education with immense enthusiasm. The clothes had indeed come off, and good things did, in fact, happen. To the point where he thought that he might finally lose the virgin tag, but Etenesh had persuaded him to wait just a little longer. She said she wanted to “make it special.” Which was nice of her, but he was pretty sure it was going to be special regardless.

He one hundred percent had Virgin-itis. Soon to be First-Girlfriend-itis. Falling this hard for the first woman to show serious interest in him was dumb. Classically dumb. But he still was, and he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he wouldn’t have it any other way. Which was a symptom of the disease, he knew, but, well, he wasn’t going to make unnecessary drama.

His mouth quirked slightly as he stared at the engraved wall outside the conference room. Once upon a fairly recent time, he would have said he “wasn’t that dumb.” Now? He was content thinking that “he wasn’t dumb.” It didn’t always stick. The intrusive thoughts came in. Even when Etenesh was demanding his attention, he couldn’t escape them. But he could recognize them. Name them. Examine them and find the lies in them.

Truth was healing. Which was good because soon he would be returning to Jeon, and that was likely a one-way trip. Starbrite had been the king of this world for centuries, and if you take a shot at the king, you best not miss.

He had Incisive running almost all the time now but minimally. A steady, if tiny, drain on his energy and attention. It was worth it. Right now, Tommy Wells, Professional Bodyguard, anticipated the first guest to leave the conference room and opened the door just before they reached it.

“It’s not a failure. Negative results are every bit as important as positive ones.”

“That makes for great philosophy and a lousy dinner. Disease, pests, pathetic yields, huge energy investment for the result, and worst of all, the soil is depleted. The results will be even worse next time if we use the same fields.”

“Right, but now we know what to work on.”

It seemed that the discussion hadn’t stopped. It was merely being relocated from the conference room to the dining room. There hadn’t been much meat on the menu recently. It looked like Merkovah was right about that. The price of beef or chicken was high and rising fast.

Which sucked. He might pass as a Desrin, but involuntary vegetarianism wasn’t appealing. The kitchen at Nag Hamadi did a roast chicken and lentil dish that blew his mind. It was that spicy red seasoning they used. Apparently, it was a blend of spices, adjusted as needed or desired for maximum effect. When the dish came out with a crispy drumstick sitting on a bed of lentils and diced carrots… damn. The visual alone made his mouth water. Then the smell, all roasted goodness and spicy intrigue, and he was ready to riot. He had met the lay sister who ran the kitchen. She was very apologetic about making “cafeteria food.”

He… didn’t want to see Siphios collapse. He didn’t want to see anywhere collapse, really, but especially Siphios. This country had been more than just good to him. But Merkovah seemed firmly of the opinion that some degree of collapse was inevitable, and the conference attendees seemed to agree.

Nobody knew how to farm without magic. Why would you ever need to know that? Angels would be only too happy to bless your fields, renewing the soil, increasing your yields, and keeping disease or pests at bay. Weather magic would ensure they got the right amount of water or sun. Even the tilling and planting could be done with bound demons.

It was easy as anything to support a large population. Never a calorie shortage that wasn’t policy driven. Nothing gets a body to work like the threat of starvation, right?

He checked inside the conference room just to make sure everyone was out. They were, but they had left up a picture. A farmer, weathered but upright, looking helplessly on as hail turned his vegetables from bounty to carnage. He looked so tiny, so helpless compared to the black clouds towering above him. He was a farmer, not an angel or demon. How could he hold back the sky?

What could he do but pray for God’s mercy? Pray when God clearly isn’t listening.

Truth could imagine it. You only ate what you could grow. You busted your ass looking forward to the delicious veggies that would keep your family alive all year. And then God looked the other way. A storm came. Destroyed your harvest, destroyed your fields, destroyed your hope.

God didn’t care about how hard you worked. He didn’t care about how much you sacrificed. He didn’t care about how much your family needed this. He didn’t care that you would starve without it. That you would have to watch your kids go to bed hungry, getting weaker and weaker every day.

Next door, your brother is doing great. He keeps goats and sheep, and yeah, they have their own problems, but hail ain’t one of them. God looks at your brother and smiles, blessing pouring down on him, his wives, and his fat children as yours get thinner and thinner. And your brother won’t help you. He says he needs it all, and what he doesn’t need belongs to God. Your suffering is God's will and has nothing to do with him. He isn’t your keeper.

So you take him somewhere quiet. You pick up a rock and smash his fucking head in. You slaughter him like one of his damn goats. Which you then collect for yourself and your kids and your wives. Maybe you will take in his wives, adopt his kids. Maybe not. Looking at the ruins of your farm, it’s hard to feel generous. Especially when everyone keeps calling you a sinner and a criminal.

You did your very best. It wasn’t enough. God looked away, and now you were the sinner. Well. You would be the sinner with healthy kids. And if anyone didn’t like it, they could come at you. Never any shortage of rocks.

Truth flipped off the light and locked up. Fuck farming. If the Rough Patron’s legacy was one of violence, so be it. He would go to Jeon and be a killer. His family ate first. There might not be much of a future in violence, but there was none at all for the passive or meek.

Merkovah was leaning up against the wall when Truth turned around. Grinning. “Let’s get going.”

____________________________________________

Step one of being a terrorist was, apparently, don’t look like one. This was somewhat challenging for Truth, as almost any list of adjectives one might apply to him would also fit a person of significant interest to the police. Merkovah had, therefore, prepared an identity for Truth. One which was much more boring.

“You want me to pretend to be a talisman maintenance worker on vacation. To Jeon.”

“It seems an easy fit.”

“Vacation in Jeon.”

“Many beautiful beaches, historical buildings, an extremely colorful nightlife, why not vacation in Jeon?”

“Because Harban is staggeringly expensive, and you can’t even access most of it if you aren’t a citizen.”

“Ah, you are wrong there. Tourists have wider permissions to visit places than denizens do. Not as many places as the higher tier citizens, but more than denizens.”

Truth snorted at that but believed it.

“So you will be trained on how to move and think like an operative,”

“I prefer the term-”

“OPERATIVE, and given a crash course in generating unhappiness generally. Your goal will be to generate as much misery and unrest as you safely can, while slowly chipping away at the underpinnings of the System. When the time is right, you will be given specific instructions on what to do. Others will be acting in concert, but it is best if you don’t know them or what they are doing.”

“Okay.”

Merkovah twitched at that, started to talk, stopped, then forcefully moved on. “The idea is that the lower levels will be too busy putting out the fires you are setting to be useful in the main attack, while the disruptions will be too low level to come to the attention of the C suite. And even if it does, they won’t care.”

Truth just nodded. It made sense, he supposed.

“Will the System Astrologica?”

“Will it what?”

“Care? It’s job is to be the management backbone of Starbrite, and I assume it’s got some kind of self preservation instinct.”

“A surprising number of spirits don't, actually. But yes, we have been able to determine that it will act to preserve itself. It will certainly be issuing missions and instructions related to your activities.”

“And my own… condition?”

Merkovah’s expression was technically a smile, though without the slightest trace of warmth. A tiger’s smile.

“Well, about that.”

____________________________________________

Merkovah’s carriage wound its way through the mountain pass. The cousins had been left with a stack of homework back at Nag Hamadi.

“Is it just me, or is Jember glowing more these days?” Truth asked.

“It’s not just you. I think Etenesh lit a fire under him to improve, and the ritual has him bouncing off the walls. He’s ready to be done with this.”

“Is this another… I don't know what to call it. God embodying rituals?” Truth stared at the trees, unwilling to even guess their species. “Dense” and “Thick” are of marginal use for identification.

“More or less. More abstract and less specific than what Etenesh did. He is trying to embody the solar aspect of God. Plus a bunch of other stuff his cult believes in, but that’s the bit I know about.” Merkovah said. He was also staring at the trees, looking for something.

“Embodying the solar…” Truth trailed off. Merkovah probably wouldn’t appreciate being told that sounded like grown people making up stories, then insisting everyone act like it was real.

“Personally, I think it sounds ridiculous, but I suppose everyone thinks that about the cults they aren’t in.” Merkovah frowned, not finding what he was looking for.

“Oh, are you in a cult?”

“Mmmhmmm.”

“Can’t talk about it?”

“More like… it would take longer to explain what we are about than I intend to spend up in these mountains. The minimum prerequisite to join is to be one hundred years of age, married, and with a proven depth of theological study and rigor. The details of which would confuse and exhaust you, I’m afraid.”

“Oh. Well. Thank you?”

“No problem. I tend to leave our little conversations on the nature of God feeling depressed, so this works for me too. Oh, finally!” Merkovah jerked the carriage to the side of the road in a horrible squeal of metal on metal. Truth couldn’t escape fast enough.

“Welcome, Mr. Wells, to the Silent Forest. Kindly get naked while I fish out the rope and other sacred gear.”

“Ah… care to explain what, exactly, is going to go on here?”

“This is one of the National Treasures I promised you. Basically, we sacrifice you to the forest. You will hang by the neck from a tree branch from sunset to sunset. When the ritual is complete, you will be able to hide yourself from detection incredibly well. When combined with your existing spells and resistances, you will be almost imperceivable. Certainly, your “Spirit of Intellect” will never be spotted. It’s a genuine wonder and your supreme good fortune to benefit from it. Now.”

Merkovah quickly made a noose in a rough hemp rope. “Let's get you strung up.”

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