Story #315 - War by Numbers

War by Numbers

“Four of the Apocalypse,” he said, throwing the card down with a smirk of triumph. There was only one counter-move in the deck, and he was sure -

“Ten of Mending Winds,” the First said with a smile of his own, gently placing the smooth card face up on the pile. Its blue-toned surface was a far cry from the red and black Apocalypse card, and once played it always signaled the end of a game.

“Good show.” That was the Fourth – he said little during their matches, understanding his place at the hierarchy's bottom end.

“Indeed,” the Third said clearly. She was more vocal, but the First had been experimenting with personality when she was created and was perhaps a touch aggressive – her people alternately prospered and suffered as a result.

“I call a cheat,” the Second said flatly, pulling his Apocalypse card out from the pile. “I have the same Winds card in my hand, and we all know there can't be two in a deck.” The First's eyes narrowed, though no anger flared. He was always so obvious when he tried to play fast and loose with the rules – the frustration came when he tried to deny it.

“My son,” he said, “you must calm yourself.” The Second felt his own anger rise. True, he had been made by the hand of the First, but that didn't make him a lackey like the Fourth or a firebrand like the Third – he was a far superior creature to any of them, including his maker, but had been relegated to a corner of the world he was quite certain contained less than one-quarter of the population. It wasn’t by much, but those who believed themselves his equal were trying to cheat him. The card game was merely another example.

“Calm myself?” His tone was thick with irritation. “Why? I played fairly and you did not – you simply wished to see the match end because of my choice. What gives you the right to demand my peace when you have broken it?”

“If you'll excuse me,” the Fourth murmured as he stood. He had never been able to stomach arguments or violence and while his people were the most peaceable of any on the surface, they were also the weakest – small sections of his territory were forever being bit off by the Third and then returned at the behest of the First.

“Me too,” the Third let out a quick belch and stood as well. Fight and fire were in her nature, and made her the most interesting of those the Second had the misfortune to call a portion of his own being. If nothing else, she was amusing.

“Of course, children,” the First said, also rising. “Depart in peace.”

Both made smalls bows and then winked out, back to their own kingdoms or wherever whim took them – not even the First knew where another traveled unless they chose to speak the words aloud.

“Now, my son,” he went on, “join me on the balcony.”

The Second didn't respond but rose and moved for the door. Being close to the arrogant father of the world for too long disturbed his calm, and at least in the glowing evening light of Stars' Rest he could enjoy a moment at the thought of dressing-down a being who believed himself so righteous.

For a moment the view of the world below captivated his attention, the city-scapes and mountain lines that made up existence of the mortals they had created. Each of the four had contributed a part of themselves to bring humanity out of dust, and each lost something when one died. The Second had spent nights sobbing with the agony of life lost to wars and their weapons, or glorying in the agonizing miracle that was human birth.

“What vexes you, my son?” The First asked softly.

The Second spun, hands coming to his hips and chest puffing out in a pure gesture of defiance. “You know damn well – you cheated because you didn't want to see those marked by the cards die. Creating another Mending Winds saved them but went against the spirit of the game, against the rules we have created!”

“Son,” the First moved forward and the Second slipped out of the way. Touching was not a requirement of talking. “Our gatherings and our game are merely to bring us together, not punish those below. Having them as an unknowing portion of our evening is pleasant as a diversion but I do not wish them to die on a play of the cards.”

Barking a laugh, the Second spread his arms wide. “And yet you don't mind their suffering! You played the Harvest card – you ensured they would spend a winter scavenging in fear. Don't pretend to be so noble!”

“Suffering is required by their kind,” the First said sternly, “you know this. Joy alone makes them weak and worrisome, and they must suffer in some measure for balance.”

“Of course,” sarcasm dripped from his tone as he leapt onto the balcony's edge. “You always have a reason for your actions – you always find a way to place yourself in the best light. No longer!” He was screaming now but didn't care – what of his suffering under at the hands of such a fool creator?

“Second, I am warning you -” A hint of malice came through, a tiny speck of hate, and the Second smiled as he spoke again over the words of his maker.

“And I am serving notice. Your time has come. Just as you replaced the Nil before you, you must be replaced. War by Numbers is declared for your time-again treachery – suffering will come to you and yours.”

“Do not do this!” The First's voice was hoarse. “Please!”

“It is done!” He said, pulling in the needed strength to travel. “The game is real now, maker – play well!”

- D

Story #278 - The Twelve

The Twelve

Legends of the Twelve abound, of the dozen that were present in the universe at its creation. Most such legends were wrong – simple things that had been twisted by the mouths of those speaking until they resembled nothing so much as reflections of flawed mortality. The Twelve intended as much, intended their message to be lost to the ages, pieces and parts scattered to the five solar winds.

What they did not expect was losing one of their own.

The Twelve did not build the universe, though they were born shortly after it arrived. They were not, therefore, a part of its original fabric, and to lose one was possible, though even they were unaware.

Over eons, the Twelve came to believe their own stories, came to be sure of their place in the larger scheme. The universe delighted in such arrogance, and began to devise a way to punish the beings for their hubris – or so it seemed.

That, of course, supposes that the universe cared about the Twelve, or that an entity forged of matter and energy could hate those created in its wake. No such emotion was possible, but after the loss of the First, the Twelve became certain they were the target of a vicious attack.

The oldest of their remaining number, the Seventh, had an interest in origins, and delved deeply into beginnings. What was uncovered lent credence to no theory, meshed with no thought, mortal or divine. The Seven was frustrated, but an agreement was reached. None of the lesser things would be made aware of the Lost.

Those under the care of the Lost suffered – the Twelve had chosen to take on the well-being of the lesser beings that littered the universe, though not out of any feeling of obligation. To them it seemed the sensible choice, a way to ensure that the tiny, confused pockets of swarming matter did not suddenly decide they were greater than their station. Such arrogance could be met with direct force, and not a few burgeoning species found themselves crushed under the hammer of the Twelve, and for nothing more than moving forward.

It was the Second that finally found an answer, of sorts, though one that did not sit well. Origins were not what concerned the Second, but the endings of all things, including the Twelve. Predication and probability told the tale; they too, would meet their end, and with increasing speed.

A meeting was called, a council convened, a panicked thing that saw the self-styled masters of the universe cowering and afraid. What had killed the First appeared to be stalking them all, and was the universe itself.

Details were shared, small stones of information that had made their way to each of the Twelve in turn, but had never been pooled in a single place, never been shared among those equal and yet desperately jealous.
Clarity came, along with the sudden realization that not one of them was safe – not one would survive. The universe was older than them all, more powerful, and they were unworthy.

Some questioned what they had done to deserve such a fate, while others railed against its coming. Stories of the Twelve changed as they became tyrants, Lords of destruction that rained death upon the lesser beings of the universe. Planets were engulfed in flames and compressed into nothingness, the victims of moments of pique and depression.

Each by each, the Twelve were removed.

The Eighth was next, a sudden energetic implosion that shook half the universe and sent the Fourth and the Fifth to reeling. The Second and Twelfth followed in rapid succession, both simply winking out with no explanation, no marker to speak of their passing. The Twelve had become the Eight, and the universe began to roil and burn. Fiery suns exploded, consuming planets and devouring other stars; black holes appeared, torn wide from tiny rips in the fabric of space. In the space of two short eons those born at the start of all met their end – all save one.

The Ninth remained.

He – the pronoun had always formed around his mindset most appropriately – was sure that his time was coming. Each exercise of his power brought him one step closer to oblivion, one moment closer to the end of all things. The time for measured consideration was over, the time for deliberation had passed. Pouring his energy into the last planet left to his control, a new monument was risen, a new story told of the Twelve. None on the surface understood the quaking of their cities, knew why the cracks in their earth appeared.

Alone and weak, the Ninth awoke, startled to find his consciousness intact. His next thought followed, something about the weak body that now housed his being, but it was the simple linearity of that thought which had him reeling. Such a limited process – what had been done to him? What this the end?

Sense penetrated slowly – so slowly. Without the power bestowed upon him, he had become no more than the beings he watched in amusement, no more than an insect upon a tiny leaf of the plant of the universe. Somewhere, that power was stored, waiting for a claimant, waiting to be re-taken.

It could not be him – the universe sought him out. But perhaps…the thoughts came so slowly he wanted to scream, and did so, once he discovered how to make his foul lungs work.

Perhaps one of the crawling things on this planet could be shaped, molded to be enough. Perhaps there was hope for the Twelve yet.

Stumbling to his feet, the Ninth moved toward glimmering lights on the horizon. Observations of the mortals told him they would be willing to offer shelter to a traveler in need, a being that could not sustain himself.

Faint energy thrummed within him, a reflective beacon of what he had cast down. He could lead, if they would follow – perhaps the universe would not destroy one that was worthy.



- D