Chapter 109: A Heavy Hand

Chapter 109: A Heavy Hand

Truth stood guard outside the conference room at Temple Nag Hamadi. His thoughts bounced around, as they tend to do when you are on staring-at-the-wall duty.

Kissing Etenesh was pretty great. Not... one hundred percent comfortable with what he seemed to need to get comfortable. Simultaneously thrilled and alarmed that Etenesh had figured it out and seemed ok with it. Enthusiastic about it, even.

Was this the bad boy effect? Many of his romance novels described it in detail. It was apparently lethally effective. But he wasn’t a “Bad Boy,” right?

He wrestled with the thought for a long while. Had he committed crimes? Yes. Did he care about committing crimes? Only to the extent that it had limited results. So that was bad. But he didn’t go out of his way to hurt people, right? Right. He didn’t do that.

Except for the times when he did. And there went his morale, like urine down a trouser leg. He forcibly reminded himself that Etenesh was setting the pace here, and if she didn’t like it, she wouldn’t have done it. Everything else was just guesswork, and he had important staring at the wall to do.

But damn, did she have him worked out or what? Even he hadn’t cracked that code.

The walls of Temple Nag-Hamadi remained as they ever were. Covered with inscriptions in different languages, dotted with pictures, and completely incomprehensible to him. The subtle oddity of them was a little better understood now. It was their extra-realness. What the System had once called “Local Superreality.” And wasn’t that an interesting phrase to roll around?

“Local superreality.” “Local” meaning the area right around you, and “superreality,” which probably wasn’t a real word but clearly meant that you were more real than the already “real.” And since everyone insisted that “reality” was a) the mind/will of God, or possibly something generated by God by simple virtue of his existence, and b) not evenly distributed, as God understandably kept the stuff closest to him... “him...” most real. It got the most attention from the big guy, after all. Their lousy planet had been barely noticed before, and now it was, apparently, being actively ignored.

Was the planet becoming less real? Cultivation could make things more real. Could the process work in reverse? Could the export of all those precious minerals and natural treasures be weakening the planet somehow? A planet already beneath God’s notice?

Truth had no idea, but it would make sense. Leaving aside what he suspected was the true reason for the Shattervoid’s refusal to visit, they could also be coming less often for economic reasons. Maybe it just wasn’t worth it anymore.

Hang on, hang on, he knew something about this. Truth squinted fiercely at a particularly eye-catching bunch of squiggles on the wall. The Shattervoid Clan priced their tickets weirdly. The lower your cultivation, the more expensive the ticket. The higher-level guys had more money. You should be soaking them, right? Upcharging the poor and weak wasn’t a profit-maximizing move.

He thought it was a policy thing- keep the slumrats planet bound where they could labor for the already rich and powerful. What if it was something else? What if it was more expensive for them to ship things from the edges of God’s attention? Did the black ships not work as well in low-reality areas?

Truth had no idea. But he suddenly had an awful lot of questions. The Mountain of Things Truth Doesn't Know wasn’t shrinking. The wicked peak grew by the day!

This planet relies on the Black Ships for food imports and for technology we can’t manufacture here. Apparently, the planetary economy is mostly exports. The thought ran down his spine like a demon’s claw. The initial instance of this chapter being available happened at N0v3l.Bin.

We have to export something to get food. The Shattervoid Clan doesn’t care about 99% of what we make. It’s all too unreal for them. All they want are the minerals and natural treasures. Maybe some manufactured goods, maybe not.

Actually, definitely some manufactured goods, because he knew for a fact Starbrite exported a load of finished products off-planet. Others must too- regardless of how powerful Starbrite is, the whole world would be at his throat if he controlled all the food.

Truth stifled a laugh. Wasn’t professional on duty. Didn’t match the look.

They were fucked. No wonder everyone looked so beaten going in and coming out of the conference room. They were completely, one hundred percent screwed. He didn’t know how the planet got into this trap, but it sure seemed like they were locked in now.

That Desrin lady said it the first day he was guarding this door- there would be war. Terrible war. But who would be left on the planet to fight it?

All the elites would do their best to tear away all they could from the world and run away. All that would be left would be, what? The Level Fives and under? Level Fours? Trapped on a dying world, fighting over what meager resources remained after the final ripping violation.

Billions would die, of course. Not enough food, and without the elites, the systems of government would break down. Social order would collapse, with local powerhouses- hah, those “Local Superreality” tycoons, ruling over lower-level people desperate for some shred of security. For however long those “Tycoons” could maintain their apertures. How long until those started to collapse from a lack of cosmic energy and elixirs?

“Felt terrible. Makda thought she was stupid. She really thought she was dumb because she couldn’t get the spell to work. How do I even explain to her that it’s not her?”

“Still not a romantic, Brother?”

The Spell-Blade enthusiast was back with his friend.

“Can’t say I am, Sir, no.” Truth replied.

“Even after the Hero of the Terraces appeared?”

“Yes. Because what really saved the day was Old Mek’elle coming in and putting his foot down. He helped. I won’t deny him that, he helped. But it was power that saved the day, not romance.”

Truth looked the enthusiast dead in the eye. “I don’t know what’s going on in the conference, Sir. Not my job, not my place. But if you are looking for a hero, you might want to look for power first. The kitchen made misirwot today. I can recommend it.”

The enthusiast shook his head. “No hungry heroes, huh.”

“Hunger sharpens the blade but can only swing it once. A full belly can cut all day.”

The Desrin and his friend looked thoughtful as they turned toward the dining room. “Well. I guess we need to get sharpening, then. And figure out where to cut.” The friend muttered. The Spell-Blade enthusiast didn’t say anything. But after a few steps, he slowly nodded. Then stopped and turned back to face Truth.

“You are wrong about one thing, you know. There are endless hungry heroes. Endless. Mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and all manner of kindred, living lean to help their loved ones. Fighting on as best they can.”

“Yes, Sir. Someone with power thought it was best they starved, so they are. Their hunger is policy. Someone with power made a choice, and now the heroes live lean. Do you think they want to be remembered as heroes or as someone who became powerful enough to change things for their family? Sir?”

_______________________________

The hallway emptied again. Merkovah stepped out of the conference room and started to pat Truth on the shoulder. Then smiled and stopped his hand in the air. “You remember our conversation about heroes?”

“Yes, Teacher.”

“I believe in Heroes, you know. In romance, in holy martyrs and the power of dreams.”

Truth just nodded. Merkovah was Level Seven. He could believe what he liked.

“Of course, I believe all of that because I got strong enough to survive that belief.” Merkovah grinned and suddenly flicked forward with a jab. Incisive screamed a warning, and Truth dodged left. Merkovah’s hand stopped in the air again, barely halfway to Truth.

“Keep practicing, Mr. Wells. Keep up the good work. I think we must discuss next steps soon. There is less time than I thought. Yes, less time than I thought.” The beardy exorcist shook his head and started walking towards lunch. “Shall I send over a bowl of misirwot?”

“I’d prefer shekla tibs. I’m suddenly craving meat.”

“Enjoy it while you can. Price of meat’s going up every day. Nobody’s growing animal feed anymore.”