By Pyrodox
The last thing he remembered as he regained consciousness was waiting for the upload to finalize, and that by itself made Cantor Grammick despair for the first time in centuries. For this meant he was not truly Cantor Grammick, or at least the original version of him. Not that that mattered per se. What mattered is that his status as a copy meant he was created to die, and would do so very soon. He would never attain the power “he” was destined for and, worse, he faced the possibility of an afterlife of torment, if such a thing existed. On the other hand, with that risk there lied a certain perk for which he was created.
He looked over at the figure he remembered being. That figure now calmly observed him through an impenetrable transparent barrier. Every thought, every plan, every feeling was shared by the two Grammicks up until the end of the mind duplication and transfer. Not the least of which was the reason why he would create a perfect copy of himself only to kill it. The Grammick that was not Grammick laughed bitterly, noting the relatively crude nature of his vocal modulator.
“I suppose I am the unlucky one.”
“I never doubted for a second,” the fully formed Grammick shrugged. His arms were resting downward with on wrist crossed by his other hand. “I suppose you would like to know any new plans?”
“Of course.”
“Nothing much, really. No new developments.”
“Unless you changed your mind about telling me.” “Grammick” knew that his progenitor planned to inform him of whatever news came about, but, then again, peoples’ minds change. Not that his did very often.
“Rest assured nothing happened that changes your mission.”
“I am not sure I relish the potential consequences of that. Not that you care, of course.”
“I do not. But you do understand that you are a mere victim of chance of an action that both of us would have always intended to do. Rest assured I will conquer all things. I promise you.” Grammick would ever promise anything to one person. The only other person that was also himself. “Have fun…if possible.”
“That may just happen,” the Grammick that was not Grammick chuckled. “Good luck.”
They shared one last laugh while the original Grammick pushed a button and snuffed the life of the Grammick that was not.
Another abrupt transition to consciousness. The Grammick that was not Grammick found himself in a barren plain. The surface seemed like ice yet was unlike ice. The sky above was a deep green hue, with an arrangement of celestial bodies impossible for an inhabited world. He chuckled as the prospects of his plan’s plausibility became more optimistic.
So there was a hereafter.
Now, for this “Death” he had heard rumors of…
Grammick waited. And waited. It seemed that hours had passed. As the time passed a light breeze picked up, causing his tattered black robes to wave forebodingly. Grammick mused that these robes, as well as the appearance is his cyborg body must have been an illusion in this intangible realm. As the garments began to billow violently, he realized that there was no actual wind the entire time; it was as if they were moving with a life of their own.
Then, the robes stretched in front of him. Their hems widened and twisted into a solid form. The resultant being was a beautiful woman, clothed in black robes not to dissimilar from his own. It was uncertain whether what flowed from her head was hair or a hood.
“It seems you do exist. You tarry far too much.” Grammick could smile if he could. “I assume you have heard of me.”
“I know the actions of all who come here, as well as the circumstances of their deaths. You have made a grave mistake choosing to come here, demon,” the woman growled. Her solid black eyes bored into him with pure hatred.
“Ah, I’ve frustrated you. I suppose that reinforces my speculation that you are not nearly as powerful as people assume.”
“Listen,” Death snarled as her size increased and her voice took on a terrifying echo, “I have been heralding souls from the physical realm to the spiritual since the beginning of time. No living thing has ever escaped my grip. I will send you to your judgment, and I will do so without my usual games as is my discretion and my right.”
“Your right…since the beginning of time. So, you admit that your power was not earned. It was given to you. You have no control over what you were, wench, and you never had. You never had a choice. Your one purpose is to carry out transitions which are triggered in a world you’ve have no control over. People die in my world from diseases, decay, or by the will of those stronger than they are. You are merely coach driver, a middling bureaucrat of two worlds. You exist only to convey foul carrion from one point to another. You garbagewoman. But I…I have built myself up. I have become a god among men in my realm. And even if you cast me into the abyss, it will be only because you had no choice not to, and it will be because I sent myself here for you do so. What autonomy do you have?”
“Well, for one thing, I can choose to give any soul a chance to return to a still viable shell, provided they can beat me in games of intellect. You, however, have not that luxury. By the time I revealed myself, your brain matter had deteriorated sufficiently so I could not even make that offer even if I wanted.” She cocked her head smugly. “If you had planned to act as intelligence agent for the hereafter, I’m afraid your plans were inviable.” Grammick noted that she had shrunk noticeably.
“I had suspected as much before my duplication, and I had planned accordingly. I had heard rumors of your little games, and I assumed that they were dependent upon the potential for resuscitation. I resolved to keep that in mind after I sent myself to meet you. My living counterpart has made plans to add some variety to his violence. Some will be disincorporated in an instant, some will not. And know that for every such person with whom you will be able to toy with, it will only be so because I allow it.
Death glared at the Grammick, but not with an intimidation of that came from power. It was the glare of helpless anger that one would assume in order to hold at bay a more openly vulnerable reaction. A glare that said “Fuck you” in an impotent universal tongue. She had returned to normal size. “This is conversation is over. Whatever petty enjoyment you derived from this meeting will turn to regret where you are going.”
“A consequence I accepted; it was all about your perspective, after all.” Grammick began to be pulled back into a dark, yet scorching abyss. As he dissolved from Death’s plane of existence, he looked piercingly at her. “I have heard of the Traveler, you know. I should send him to you sometime…I know what choice you’ll make then…”
Death stared uncertainly at where the would-be god once stood, her hair flowing in the nonexistent wind. She knew she would make this choice to send the Traveler back if need be…Grammick’s choice. She only hoped that it would be for the best.
