Goddess in the Machine

by Lora Beth Johnson

  Andra hadn’t seen him move, but he was suddenly in front of her, his arm raised, a knife glinting in his clenched fist. And she knew she should run or fight back or do something, but she couldn’t. She just stood there, because part of her believed him—that she did deserve what came. For lying. For being a disappointment.

  For not being the Goddess these people needed.

  Just as the man was about to bring the knife down, he froze. His eyes widened, his mouth gaping like a fish. At first, Andra didn’t understand what was happening, but then the man made a choking sound, and she turned to see Maret, his brow furrowed in concentration and his crown gleaming beneath his hair in the moonlight.

  He was choking the man with nanos.

  There weren’t enough nearby to form into spears, as Maret had done with her maids. There were, however, enough of the microscopic ’bots to block the man’s airway, and that was exactly what Maret was doing. Then, the man’s hand slowly began to turn, until he was pointing the weapon at himself. His eyes widened further in panic.

  “Guv,” Andra whispered, needing to stop this, but afraid to startle him into action.

  Maret’s face was contorted, and what Andra thought was a trickle of sweat was actually a bead of blood running down his cheek. Either something was wrong with Maret, or with the crown.

  The man’s hand arced further, the edge of the weapon grazing his throat. His face was a bright red.

  “Guv,” Andra said again, but Maret seemed not to hear her. She took a step closer and put a hand on his arm. “Maret, stop.”

  He blinked, and it was like he was coming back to himself. As quickly as he had captured the man, he released him. The old man fell to his knees, sucking in a breath, and his weapon clattered to the cobblestone.

  Maret stooped in front of him, picked up the knife, and used it to lift the man’s chin. The man’s face lit with recognition.

  “Sorries, Guv,” he croaked. “Sorries. I didn’t reck . . .”

  “If you,” Maret said, his voice low, “or any of your ilk, come near the Goddess again, I will find you and fillet you as you breathe. Do you comp?”

  The man swallowed, attempting to nod with the knife still caught against the soft spot under his chin. “Firm. Firm, Guv, sorries.”

  “Neg, you’re not.” Maret pulled away, flipping the knife in his hand and pocketing it. “But you will be.”

  The man scrambled back, not waiting to be dismissed, and hobbled down the nearest darkened alley.

  Maret turned to Andra and offered her his hand. “Shall we?”

  Andra ignored him, her pulse still racing. “What was the symbol on his arm?” It had been a ragged hollow circle, lit in a web of circuitry. It reminded Andra of a coffee cup stain, or an eclipse. A ragged red slash tore through it, like someone had tried to cut it out.

  Maret was quiet for a moment. “He’s with the Luddites. Or dunno they call themselves something different, but that was what the First called them, and it snagged. They hate angels and everything to do with High Magic. And . . . the Goddesses.” He pushed his bottom lip out in thought. “You.”

  “But his arm was modded . . . magic. He was trying to sell me magic.”

  Maret laughed without humor. “People are always against something til it favors them.” He was quiet a moment. “And not everyone has a choice bout what’s done to them. Bout what they are.”

  Something about his tone—the softness, the vulnerability—kept Andra quiet. He shrugged and walked on, footsteps gritty against the cobblestone. After a moment, she followed him in silence.

  They took the street past a teetering neighborhood, and there, the buildings ended abruptly. There was a small grassy area, and then the edge of the ’dome.

  The base formed the black titanium wall encircling the city. It was taller than Andra, and she had to look up to see where it gave way to the plastene/metallic glass hybrid of the ’dome. In the sunlight, the glass had a faint rainbow sheen, but in the dark it was nearly invisible. Or it should have been. When she twisted her head, she could see where the hexagonal plates converged. Stark black lines ran in between each panel, bleeding into the glass itself. Dead nanos. They stretched along the skin of the ’dome like greedy fingers, fading into the night sky.

  Maret gestured for her to take a look. “Evens. Can you fix it?”

  “Give me a minute,” she muttered.

  Andra approached the ’dome and reached out, feeling along the cold titanium surface for a seam. It was for practicality’s sake—it was too dark to see—but Andra realized the movement made it look like she was doing magic.

  “Where is it,” she mumbled.

  “Here,” Maret said, and a light flicked on.

  She turned to find him holding a T-16 Prime Tablet. Andra’s breath caught. She couldn’t believe it.

  Did Maret have any idea what he had?

  It was the same model her mother, Dr. Griffin, all the LAC elites had used. It had the most powerful processor on the planet, but it was a miracle it had survived this long and Maret was using it as a flashlight.

  Something must have shown on her face, because Maret asked, “Are you evens?” At first his voice sounded concerned, but then he added, “To be true, you’re the most squeamish goddess we’ve ever had.”

  “I’m fine,” Andra whispered, reluctantly turning back to the ’dome anchor.

  That tablet must have been the First’s. But how did she get access to something only LAC officials used? Stop it, she told herself. It wasn’t Mom. It was probably just handed down by the original colonists. But she didn’t believe that either. She shook away the thought and continued her search.

  Andra found a tiny crack, a hinge, but her mind was still focused on that T-16 Prime. Her hands shook as she flipped open a plastic cover to reveal a palm’lock beneath. She pressed her hand to it and a holo’display emerged asking for a pass code. She circumvented it using a hacking method she’d picked up in school, when the students would break into each other’s logins.

  Once past the security, she filtered through the files until she found a program for maintenance. And here, she was lost. Though she could detect patterns, she couldn’t make sense of them. But one thing jumped out at her. A file about the ’dome’s construction. She sucked in a breath.

  “Can you fix it?” Maret asked again, and Andra couldn’t tell if he was curious or just reminding her he was there.

  She didn’t answer right away. No, she couldn’t fix it. But she knew who—or what—could. Halfway down the file were the words:

  Rather than relying on human care, maintenance will be provided by a corresponding AI.

  An AI.

  Andra’s heart pounded with adrenaline as she pressed her palm to the ’lock, shutting down the ’display, and turned back toward the palace. “I think so.” The words were a whisper.

  The ’dome was failing because the AI assigned to reprogram its nanos was missing. But luckily, a homing beacon showed where it was being kept.

  The palace.

  An AI. In the palace.

  The ’display hadn’t said exactly where in the palace, but Andra had a way to find out. AI gave off a specific tech signature, which Andra hadn’t considered since her ’implant was incompatible. But now, she had another option. Maret’s tablet had a scanner that could lead her right to it.

  She still needed a mech’bot, and more scraps of tech for the shuttle, but for the first time in a long time, Andra felt something like hope.

  She was going back to Earth.

  EIGHTEEN

  pishogue, n. or adj.

  Definition:

  a spell or charm.

  belonging to witchcraft.

  a story of unbelievable elements.

  Andra didn’t rest at all that night. It had been tough for her to make herself sleep since
coming out of stasis, but now it was nearly impossible. She’d gotten back from her excursion with Maret in enough time to make it to goddess lessons, albeit a little late. Zhade didn’t seem to notice—just handed her a busted circuit board, then started teaching her the miracles of the First (her awakening, the great stardust migration, the building of the ’dome . . . was there anything this woman couldn’t do?). He called it a night when Lilibet started listing the miracles of the Second, which were more fire-and-brimstone oriented. Andra would have to do something miraculous soon if she wanted to keep up this ruse. Unless she could get off-planet before she needed to prove her goddessness.

  After lessons, Lew-Eadin told her he had a lead on an old Angelic Guard somewhere in a place called Southwarden. A possible mech’bot. Her collection of scraps was growing. And now she knew there was an AI somewhere in the palace. And possibly a way to track it down.

  The tablet she’d seen Maret with could do a lot of things, but the only thing Andra was interested in was its ability to scan for AI. She needed to get that tablet, and Maret gave her the perfect opportunity.

  After they’d returned to the palace the night before, he’d told her to take the morning off goddess duties. He’d made it sound like a favor, playing the kindhearted ruler, but Andra shouldn’t have had to perform goddess duties in the first place. And if she had been a deity, shouldn’t she be allowed to set her own schedule?

  At any rate, while Maret thought Andra was sleeping in—or preparing to fix the ’dome, or whatever he thought goddesses did in their off time—he was in the throne room, doing whatever guvs did, his guards stationed around him. Nobody thought to protect his empty chambers, because they were sealed with “blood magic.” And Andra had a hunch about how to get around that.

  She sneaked through the palace, using some of the hidden passages Zhade had shown her, and found herself on Maret’s hall. It was a cloudy day, and the light shining through the windows was muted. Dust particles and nanos sparkled in her path, brushing her as she passed. She hadn’t been to his quarters since the day of her maids’ executions, and a wave of memories washed over her. She shook them off.

  She stopped short once she reached the end of the hall, the security DNA scan blinking to the right of Maret’s blood-red door.

  If Andra was right, these hadn’t always been Maret’s rooms. She guessed they’d once belonged to the former Guv. Which meant the scan not only opened for Maret, but had once opened for his father. It responded to those who shared his DNA.

  Which included Zhade.

  Fortunately, she didn’t actually need Zhade with her. She just needed his blood. And thanks to her reflexes when he’d sneaked up on her, she had it. He’d left the jacket he’d wiped his bloody nose on hung over one of her chairs. If she was lucky—and she was overdue for some luck—there would be enough remnants of Zhade’s DNA on the jacket sleeve for the scanner to read and let her into Maret’s suite.

  The scanner came to life. Andra held her breath and let the sleeve hover over the target. She tensed her muscles to run. If this didn’t work, the best-case scenario was that it just wouldn’t let her in. Other, more likely scenarios included an alarm going off or a trap springing.

  For a moment, nothing happened.

  Then the door clicked open.

  She released a sigh and stepped in. Maret’s rooms were just as she’d seen them before. The same extra-large furniture in dark shades of black and red. The same weapons hanging around the room. A half-drunk glass of alcohol lingered on the side table. Without the Guv and Tsurina to fill the space, the room looked less intimidating and more . . . sad. She didn’t know where to begin, but instinct told her to start with the door to the far right.

  It led to Maret’s bedroom.

  It was shrouded in darkness, thick black curtains pulled taut over the windows. The bed was perfectly made, but on the floor was a nest of blankets, twisted and disheveled. The room was filled with nanos, thick as fog. Andra felt like she was inhaling them as she crossed the room and threw open the curtains.

  The window let in minimal light, but it was enough to search by. Andra felt with her ’implant. There was nothing there—or rather, there was something just out of her reach. Like her fingers were only skimming the surface.

  Andra started with the desk closest to the door. At first, she tried to be inconspicuous, but soon she was rifling through its contents with little regard for secrecy. She found a lot of mutilated technology—sparked-out cyber implants, broken ’bands, a crushed force-field diode—but no T-16 Prime Tablet. She’d considered Maret might keep it with him, but she hadn’t seen him with it until last night.

  She checked the ornate wood cabinet next, but it was nothing more than weapons storage. Nothing in the bedside table, and she was about to go diving under the mattress when something caught her eye.

  Aha.

  It was beneath the pile of blankets. Sleek and thin, its silver casing scored with scratch marks and dusted with dirt. She picked it up, careful not to disturb the blankets, and all but cradled it to her. This was a bit of familiarity, a bit of home. And it could have been her mother’s.

  No, Andra chastised herself. Don’t think that.

  She was worried there would be some sort of security feature, but it opened right up for her, displaying in a flattened hologram. It was definitely a T-16 Prime Tablet, which meant it should have been compatible with her ’implant. But when she tried to interface with it, nothing sparked. It was a mystery, but not an obstacle.

  Andra manually opened the ’scanner app and asked it to scan for an AI techno’print, kind of like a human’s heat signature. The scanning program was efficient, and it only took a few minutes for the progress bar to go from empty to filled. Those few minutes felt like a thousand years, and Andra’s heart sped up as the scan neared its end.

  87%

  94%

  99%

  Right before the results appeared, there was a noise at the door.

  “Shit,” she hissed, then cursed herself silently for cursing out loud.

  Andra closed the program, hesitating less than a moment before placing it back where she found it. She rushed to the window to close the drapes just as the doorknob turned. She closed herself behind them and held her breath.

  Footsteps. Someone entered. The hair on her arm bristled.

  The person—Maret, she supposed—moved further into the room. The tread was light, slow. She was paying close attention, so she noticed when the steps changed from something casual to something alert.

  A pause, then a quick tread to the desk, the bureau. The same places Andra had just searched. She prayed to whoever was listening—the First, the Second (and herself, she thought dryly)—that she’d put everything back where she found it.

  The footsteps grew closer to her hiding place. Andra held her breath, trying to make herself smaller, invisible.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  Until Maret was a breath away from her, and if the curtain vanished, she would be staring right at him.

  The curtain twitched, as though he was running his fingers along it.

  Andra was smart. Clever. An excellent problem solver. But nothing in her life prepared her for what to do when faced with this: being hunted. It was too primal, when Andra had lived nothing but a life of sims and dehydrated meals and indoor plumbing. She was grasping for explanations, for plans and contingencies, but coming up desperately short. Dozens of calculations fired in her brain, but kept fizzing out, a spark extinguished before it could even catch. She could fight, but with what? She could run, but to where? She could talk her way out, but how?

  She was shorting out. No fight or flight, just freeze.

  A portion of the curtain bunched, like Maret was grasping it. Light filtered through the bottom, and if he looked down, he would see her feet. She bit her lip until the coppery taste of blood filled h
er mouth. The frantic rhythm of her heart thumped wildly behind her eardrums. Her breath threatened to spill out of her. All these reminders that she was alive, and that, if Maret found her, she wouldn’t be for long.

  The curtain started to open.

  “There it is.” Maret’s voice, muffled.

  The curtain swung back into place, heavy enough to flap against Andra’s thighs.

  She heard his footsteps retreat. Stop. Something rustling. And then more footsteps. The door opened.

  Then closed.

  Andra didn’t move.

  Was it a trap? Had he merely pretended he was leaving to draw her out? He had to have known someone had been in his rooms. She’d left evidence of her presence everywhere. Was Maret leaning against the door as Zhade would have been, waiting for her to reveal herself?

  She waited a full ten minutes, ticking the time off in her head, straining to hear any indication of another presence in the room. A breath, a cough, the shifting of weight. But soon, her legs started to cramp, and she felt silly hiding behind a curtain, if the room was truly empty.

  She peeked out. No one. Her eyes did a quick sweep of places someone could hide—under the bed, behind the bureau—but she was alone in Maret’s room. She started to dart out, when she remembered the reason she’d come in the first place. She rushed over to Maret’s nest, but the tablet was gone.

  She pushed the blankets over, looking under and between, until she’d made a complete mess, bedding strewn across the room, but it was nowhere to be found. Her answers. The scan. The thing she’d risked her life for. Maret had taken it.

  * * *

  Andra didn’t fully release a breath until she was back in her suite. She didn’t know when it had happened, but she’d come to think of her room as home base. The safety was an illusion, she knew, but it was familiar and comforting all the same.

  She threw herself on her bed. Despair threatened to overtake her. She tried to remind herself it was just a setback. Lew could still find a mech’bot for her, she had a pile of scrap metal and tech stored on her balcony, and she had proof there was an AI in the palace. But all she really wanted to do was sulk.