Memoirs of a Timelord (29 page)

       Dropping the dagger to the ground in a clatter, he fell to his knees before begging forgiveness for the evil in his heart.  Mosa sobbed openly, something rarely seen in their society, and certainly never from a sociopath like him.  

       Branson's legend only grew as word spread that his first apostle was Mosa Nol.  After the corrective work I had done in the assassin's brain, he now had the capacity to see the atrocities he had inflicted; essentially I gave him a working conscience.  After the spiritual epiphany I had orchestrated in his head, the guy became a devout follower of Branson, and his right hand man.  Oh the buzz that created in Croh society.  People started to say he was a miracle worker if he could turn someone like Mosa.

       But the Moldiva weren't about to give up that easily.  See, what you have to remember is that in pre-industrial societies one of the best ways to maintain control is religion.  Branson's liberal new faith didn't just cut into their business, it threatened their power base.  In fact, in Branson's vision of the future, followers would be much less dependent on the local Shaman for their day to day needs.  As you can guess, this did not sit well with those already in power.  These were witch doctors who ruled their domains with dictatorial fists.  They sure as hell weren't gonna let some new kid come in here and take all that away.  Worse yet, they feared he could expose them for the poseurs they really were.  For the most part, the Shaman on this planet were nothing more than confidence men, leaches on their own society.  Very little actual medicine was practiced by these guys.  But their dogma infected nearly every part of your daily life.  From praying at first dawn, to dinner prayers, and lunchtime sacrifice, and Solday services...even the clothes you wore.  

       Initially Branson was surprised by the whole Mosa thing.  He had no way of knowing what I had done, or even that I was there in the first place.  Fully phased I was essentially invisible to anyone without DuNai eyes.  So it wasn't long before he started to believe his own press.  Especially when I engineered a few more miracles.

       See, Branson didn't know about the DuNai or our mission.  Branson didn't even know I was pulling his strings at every turn.  But the deal is that the DuNai frown on Editors posing as deities because they find it blasphemous to impersonate the Maker.  It's not a law or anything, just contrary to the philosophy we live by.  Playing God is a slippery slope for Timelords, one we prefer to not tread on.

       However, there is no prohibition on using some con artist who conveniently staggered into my scenario.  Nope, none at all.  It was just dumb luck that his ship crash landed here, I really had nothing to do with it.  I discovered the event while I was studying the timeline and decided that it was perfect for my needs.  The way I figure it, since he shoulda been killed by the first assassin, the guy was living on borrowed time that I had given him.  So, I felt no pangs of remorse for using the guy like a marionette.  

       

       

       The next time, the Muldiva sent three assassins.  Confident that they would be successful this time, one of the Muldiva ring leaders was actually present in the audience.  His desire for a front row seat irritated me, so I planned something karmic for him.

       They waited until the end of the service, when Branson would move into the middle of the circled followers to lead a final prayer to Macca, and beg for humility in all things.  As the killers darted forwards, I moved in and dropped to 1/40th speed.  With my finger morphed as a molecular organizer, I carefully changed the atomic structure of their knives, most specifically the blades.

       Stepping back, I let them at him.  The first assassin's knife shattered in his hands when he tried to plunge it into Branson's thorax.  Bone shards sparkled in the midday sun for all to see.

       The second hired killer actually let out a surprised gasp at the sight of his blade bending backwards so far it had cut his own hand.  Such had been the results of trying to slit the Cleric's throat at the soft spot where his plates met.

       But the third assassin, I actually left his knife alone.  Instead I got into his mind and controlled the way he saw the world.  With nothing to get in the way, he set upon his target with murderous intent.  The killer had been maniacally hacking away at his victim for a good thirty seconds before I pulled back the veil so he could see what he'd really done.  There, in bloody pieces was Jaam Keleem, Consigliere for the Muldiva Hierarchy.  I stifled a giggle as I remembered how insistent Lord Keleem had been on having that particular chair.  He wanted a good view of the assassination, and I made sure he had the best seat in the house.

       So the first two guys were so surprised they never even noticed as Mosa Nol sliced them to ribbons with his new broadsword, fabricated from the hull of the wrecked shuttle. Branson had exhausted the last of his energy reserves to manufacture the only metal blade on the planet.  Mose Nol carried it proudly as a badge of his office; Protectorate of the Holy One.  Wasting no time he used it to decisively chop both assassins into pieces.

       Now, the third assassin was a smart sumbitch, and as soon as he realized what he had done, he knew there was no going back to his employers.  It was a safe bet that the Muldiva would be disinclined to pay him for murdering their chief advisor.  

       So assassin #3 drops to his knees and declares his allegiance to Branson and his cause.  It was the smart thing to do, and it saved his life.  Branson and Mosa both fell for the act and believed him to be a genuine convert.  Hell, they even welcomed him as a brother.  But I knew what was truly in his heart, the Guf had shown me the evil that lurked there.  Don't worry though; he didn't get off Scott-free.  A week later I shoved him into a HulRah tree where he was digested alive for the next year or so.  It was an ugly way to go, but appropriate considering what the Guf had shown me in his mind. 

       Branson was a trained intelligence officer, and he knew the power of publicity.  Sweeping up the shards of the broken knife, he convinced each of the witnesses present to carry a piece to the surrounding lands, and to carry with them the wisdom of their faith.  In turn, each of those present vowed to perform their duties as witnesses to the word of Branson.  Right there he formed the roots of his missionary empire.  He really knew how to play people.

       After that he had the second assassin's knife displayed in the town center on an elegant, hand-carved stand.  Branson had prohibited them from cleaning the grotesquely bent-back blade. His instructions were specific; leave the assassin's blood upon the tip for all to bear witness.

       For a primitive species, these people really had a superb social network setup.  They had a gossip system that was like the barking network out of 101 Dalmatians.  Really!  The females would go out in the evenings when it was cool and rub their legs together like crickets, and announce to the world their revelations on life.  The strongest chirper in the clan would be the storyteller, and the others would echo her tale.  With dozens of ladies scratching out the same lingual melody, at 119 decibels each, their song reached exceptionally far in the thick, soupy atmosphere. Other villages would hear your news, and rebroadcast the juicy stuff along with their own.  Back and forth, and all over the globe, news would travel through this informal network.  Think of it as a crude form of mass communication, internet for crickets.

       But the chirping chicks really stir things up. Every storyteller had their own bias as they reported the news.  Then there was the natural problem of sharing stories in audible form.  The farther from the source the tale was transmitted, the more it was mutated in the retelling.  In some parts of their small world Branson was vilified, in others he was hailed as Bringer of the Word of God.   Every night the females whipped up a new fervor with news from afar.  As word of the new faith spread, the Muldiva got their ire up.  Finally they were done with assassins, it was time for war.  

       The conservatives fielded an army of almost a thousand.  Facing off against them was Branson and three hundred of his most faithful, including a core of converted assassins who had become his eight apostles.  Stone-cold killers for God, they made a frightening sight as they flanked their spiritual leader that day.

       The Croh communications network had spread the word long and far; everyone knew where the armies would meet because there were nightly updates on the network.  There was no silencing the FemNet.  They had no concept of censorship in their civilization.  There was no such thing as state secrets or classified materials.  The ladies spoke their mind as they pleased.  You could not stop the cricket-net.

       So it's not surprising that thousands of spectators turned out for the event.  Cloistered on the hills around the battlefield the hillbillies camped and took up residence in the trees where they could see better.  Mom 'n Dad brung the whole dang family for a good show, yesiree Uncle Bob.

       So with my DuNai eyes I can see that Branson is scared shitless.  He'd never wanted this, just a cushy gig running a church.  But events had swept him along until he found himself facing an army that intended to murder him and his friends.  Actually that'd be putting it mildly; the enemy had a formal plan to capture him and take their time to tear him apart at every gap in his exoskeleton.  Images of having his legs ripped off at the knees left the former spy struggling for the next move.

       "Tell them God will decide whose word is right." I planted the thought in his mind thru the Guf.  He would have come to a similar conclusion on his own most likely, but my words in his head would give him courage.  Besides, bluffing was really all he had left.

       Raising his staff for all to see, he called out to his enemies, their stone axes and bone-spears gleaming in the morning light.

       "Brothers, turn away from this act you commit, do not do this bad thing.  Take from your heart this hatred and discard it, for it is the will of Chuma, the dark spirit of the underworld.  Attack me now and your fate will be decided by Clorba above.  Come brethren, and learn of the word of God, for it is good." Branson used every bit of his morphic abilities to deliver a short but moving speech.  I had implanted small audio repeaters all over the terrain so his voice would have this booming effect to it.  I knew this would unsettle the Muldiva army, but more importantly it would better impress the witnesses. Changing perceptions is central to what a Timelord does, and the important thing today is to awe the audience.  Their memories will be the legacy of your actions.

       Regaining their courage, the Muldivian army decided that the blasphemers weren't worth a speech.  Instead, they just attacked across the open ground.  Branson's forces stood their ground bravely, wisely allowing the enemy to run themselves tired before the fighting even started.  Swords and pikes ready, the army of The One True Lord stood fast.

       Using all of my focus, I spread my personal defensive shielding over Branson as I coordinated what I would do next. 

       As the armies finally connected, I was everywhere at once by means of Multiplicity.  With hundreds of me pulled from down the timeline, I tweaked the battle everywhere.  Pushing a sword here, or deflecting an axe there, I made the conservative forces clumsy and ineffective.  But Branson's forces had no such limitation as they slashed their way thru the Muldiva.  Even to the casual observer, it quickly became apparent who God favored that day, or so it appeared.  

       By the time that a general retreat was called, the Muldiva soldiers had been climbing over piles of bodies just to get at Branson's forces, only to be hacked to death upon arrival.  I tweaked the scene by adding a really neat lightshow by ionizing some of the atmospheric gases.  So, just as the victory is becoming apparent, there are these northern lights glowing in the sky overhead.  Surely it must be a sign from the Gods, right?  Well, that was pretty much what the witnesses told people when they went back to their villages. 

       Within a decade the Muldiva had lost half of their parishes, and their grip on the social fabric of the Croh was forever shattered.  Out with the old sacrificial Gods, and in with the kinder, gentler deity.  Over the next few millennia they would have several more of these social upheavals as they evolved sociologically.  Baby steps.

       While it seems like I basically just replaced one church with another, you have to understand that Branson's new scripture was scrounged from dozens of much more enlightened religions.  The conservative Croh religions were all about subservience, worship, and control.  The old gods owned you, and you begged them for every detail in your life.  They were dark gods who demanded sacrifice and absolute loyalty under penalty of death.  Culturally stifling.  Think of it like the difference between the Old Testament and the New.  Branson preached a loving deity who inspired people to strive to be better, to be merciful yet strong.  To me the most amazing part of it all was that this spiritually empowering scripture had come from a lousy deserter.  Whooda thunk?  

       As for Branson, within a planetary rotation his polymorphic abilities began to break down.  He was never more than a prototype, and his handlers had only ever intended for his mask to operate long enough for him to sabotage the enemy's infrastructure on invasion day.  But he had been running cloaked for years now and it had finally taken its toll on him.  As the morphic compounds in his body broke down, they took out his major organs in the process.  As he died, he literally disintegrated before the eyes of his physicians.  By the time his funeral arrived, Branson was nothing more than a pile of dust.

       Minister Branson Freeh was given a burial ceremony fit for a king.  With representatives from more than 300 villages from every corner of Croh society present to pay their honors, it was a sea of followers that swelled the tiny streets of Miccor.  From my vantage point atop Galt Hill, I listened intently to the crowd below as they sang the hymns their spiritual leader had taught them.  It was a moving event, it really was.