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 noise in with the treasures. Obviously, some information was obviously nationalistic propaganda: humans landing on a distant moon, flying saucers filled with aliens, and nuclear weapons were just a few of the wild stories he had discarded as nonsense. An incredible amount of time was spent talking about the best athletes and singers, or the richest noble families. The rare moments when he learned something new though, were more addicting than any drug.
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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 she is apparently coming 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, the only other response he had seen to that point was a single mythological creature – a gorgon – wandering around aimlessly.
Still, he would be a fool to underestimate a goddess.
Technis 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.