A priest stood at the front of a room in the inner sanctum of Satrap’s Central Temple, elevated on a small dais so that he was visible to all ten rows of seats in front of him. He was giving an update on the practice war, which had been dragging on for several months by then. Technis himself was seated in a curtained area off to one side, just visible enough to exert his authority over the proceedings. That was the image the demigod projected at least.
In reality, Technis barely listened to the daily update and only his remotely operated simulacrum was present. The war itself was a farce and the daily happenings were of little concern to him. He only allowed it to continue because it was proving useful to weed out the incompetent from his followers. Once he returned to the Old World and reclaimed the natural birthright of humanity, a time that was drawing tantalizingly near, he wouldn’t spare a thought for the false world of Olympos and the pitiful humans who he left behind.
His true body tensed with anticipation at the thought. Even the handful of ideas he had gleaned from the people summoned from Old World were nearly intoxicating in their creativity, incredible in both simplicity and effectiveness. Remote telepresence? He was using it right now, attending five different meetings with his simulacra. Performance measurement? Exponential growth? Spreadsheets? The ideas may as well have been magic to the people of Satrap, trapped in a world unsuited for them.
It had taken him a millennia to discover a method of breaching the gulf between worlds, but it had been worth every moment of toil and sacrifice. A hundred years had been spent fine-tuning his devices so that humans would survive the crossing. More time was spent perfecting methods of interrogation to extract every last bit of information from them. A few years more patiently listening to conversations between the prisoners, gleaning wisdom, insights, and cultural knowledge that were difficult to describe with rote facts and figures.
There was nonsense in with the treasures, of course. Some information was nationalistic propaganda. When he heart of humans landing on a distant moon, giant robots, flying saucers filled with aliens, and nuclear weapons how could he determine facts from fiction? Especially since his mind still raced thinking over the revolutionary advances in gunpowder and iron-clad ships, steam power and light bulbs, wireless communication and airships.
Now the Old World spent an incredible amount of time talking about the best athletes, singers, and the richest noble families – more noise, than information. Even that nonsense was filled with treasures: even quickening progress without divine powers, the towering triumph of humanity over a hostile world, and a world of of such excess that a human being eaten by an animal was national news. The thought of turning the potential held in the Old World to more productive pursuits made his old heart quiver with excitement.
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“Soon,” he Technis to himself, a smirk pulling up the corners of his mouth.
The smirk dropped into a frown when a small light on his wall died. There were many more lights; one for every single automata crafted by his priests. They were sorted into regions and color-coded based upon their mission. That particular light represented an automata crafted by Inquisitor Clark to pursue the outsiders who had made it past Satrap’s barrier.
Technis directed his attention to another cluster of lights, a group of agents that he had sent to disrupt the actions of the Golden Plains. They were all functional.
Technis leaned back and nodded slowly. “So Lempo’s creature still lives,” he mused. “And if she lives, it is inevitable that she will appear here.”
Dealing with the goddess had been necessary to perfect his devices to cross between worlds. He had fully expected her to cause problems when he moved to cut her off from his work, but her response wasn’t exactly what he had foreseen. Unsurprisingly, her priests had risen up against him across Satrap. However, Lempo had followed that up with a single mythological creature – a gorgon – whose apparent purpose was to wander aimlessly. Part of him thought that his plans would proceed unhindered, and that Lempo’s mercurial nature meant that she no longer cared about his actions.
Only a fool would underestimate a goddess, and Technis was no fool.
He glanced at a large gauge that glowed with a mind-warping light of uncertain color and texture. He had currently stored enough energy to transport slightly less than half of his people. He tapped his fingers together before nodding. With a thought, he took control of one of his simulacra.
He announced his presence by interrupting the proceedings in the meeting room. “Head priest,” he intoned solemnly, cutting off the man mid-word.
The room erupted into a flurry of movement as everyone present prostrated themselves upon the floor. After the activity died down the head priest slowly raised his head.
“We await your words, my lord,” came his obedient response.
“I am displeased with the performance of our clergy and soldiers,” Technis announced.
“Reduce the acceptance rate to six in ten and increase the attrition rate of the conflict to produce additional essence.”
“Your words are our will,” the room replied.
Technis nodded and released the simulacra to its default behavior.
If he had to, Technis was prepared to leave his entire following behind. Having more of them present was convenient, but he could work with a smaller group. 60% would be more than enough. The gods had left the Old World ripe for the picking.
