Goddess in the Machine

by Lora Beth Johnson

  Maret watched her for a moment over his clasped hands. “You do something for me, and not sole will I promise not to sacrifice you, but I’ll also give you what you’re looking for.”

  Her heart was in her throat. “What am I looking for?”

  Answer a question with a question.

  “Do you imagine I don’t reck the truth?” he asked.

  Damn it. He knew that trick.

  “I’m not sure you can give me what I’m looking for.”

  “Can’t I?” Was he flirting? Or threatening? Or were they one and the same to him? He stood and approached her. Andra’s heart sped up and she grasped the armrests of her chair with strained fingers. She tensed as he leaned in close and lowered his voice. “I reck you were in my room.”

  Andra’s blood chilled. She tried to formulate a response, but her thoughts were glitching, cycling through the memories of hiding behind Maret’s curtain, of Lilibet telling her of the sacrifices, of Maret threatening her with death that first day in the throne room.

  “Did you reck I couldn’t see the trail you left behind? Your presence was all over the place.” His breath was hot against her cheek. “I reck you were there, and I reck why.”

  Andra was frozen in fear, but after a moment Maret backed away. He crossed to the balcony, his stiff clothes creaking with every movement. She held her breath, willing him not to sense Mechy like he’d sensed her in his room.

  He didn’t look at her when he said, “You were looking for an AI.”

  Andra’s breath left her in a rush.

  He turned. “Surprised I reck the term?”

  She swallowed, still recovering from her fear. “Surprised you know about it and haven’t done anything.”

  “I haven’t had a reason to yet.”

  She stood and faced him. “People dying isn’t reason enough?”

  “Not particularish.”

  Andra glowered.

  Maret put up a placating hand, a gesture that mimicked his brother. “Hear, I reck you need an AI to fix the dome. I reck more than you imagine—bout you, bout the other goddesses. But I don’t reck everything—like how to use the AI to fix the gods’ dome.”

  “How do you know so much?”

  “My mother,” he said flatly. “She told me a lot of things.”

  “Where did she learn it? The First?”

  “I don’t reck where she gets her info.” Bitterness tinged his voice. “Suffice it to say I have an AI and you need an AI.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier? Hell, why has Tsurina always known about the AI and kept it hidden while letting you kill people and blame the ’dome?”

  Her room grew darker as the sun started to set. The last vestiges of light silhouetted Maret against the open balcony doors.

  “Because she hates it,” he said. “She hates the ’dome and High Magic and everything that has to do with the goddesses. She hates it all so much she’s willing to let Eerensed be destroyed if it means ridding it of the Three’s influence.”

  Andra thought back to her walk to the ’dome wall with Maret. The old man with the serve’drone and the modded arm.

  “She’s like that man you choked,” she guessed. “She’s part of that . . . what did you call it? The Luddites?”

  Maret nodded.

  A fitting name, but even in Andra’s time Luddism was considered a joke. How could someone exist in the world apart from technology? How could Tsurina hate the goddesses so much that she would be willing to live like the villagers in the Wastes, with no protection from the pockets?

  Although, the pockets were also technology. Maybe Earth would have been better without any of it.

  “What about you?” she asked.

  He scratched the skin beneath his crown, glowing orange in the light of the sunset. “What bout me?”

  “You’re her son. Where do you fit in?”

  “I . . .” His eyes glazed over. His hair fell into his face, and his expression relaxed for a moment. Andra almost pitied him. His mother wanted to kill his brother and destroy his city, and she was using her own son to enact some sort of revenge on the goddesses. But then Maret’s familiar sneer snaked back into place. “I’m the Guv. I ruled where she couldn’t, because I have this.” He gestured to the crown.

  This was more than she had signed on for—navigating Maret’s family problems. She could deal with all that later. For now, she needed the AI.

  “This deal,” she said, circling her chair, and leaning back against it like Zhade would have. “What do you want me to do?”

  Maret waved a dismissive hand. “Mereish convince Zhade to leave Eerensed. The method is your decision.”

  “And why would he listen to me?”

  Maret smirked. No, it was less cruel than that. It was almost a smile born out of . . . fondness. “My brother always had a weakness for a pretty face.”

  His chapped lips stretched into a grin at Andra’s stunned expression.

  Never let your surprise show, Zhade had advised. Always pretend you’re one move ahead, even when you’re not.

  “Get Zhade out of the city,” Maret said, “and I’ll give you the AI.”

  She couldn’t go home. She couldn’t get her family back. All that was left for her was to protect the ruins of her hometown—this city that thought she was a goddess.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

  Maret smiled and stretched out his hand. Andra hesitated just long enough to steady her nerves, but then reached out as well. The day’s last ray of light shone on their clasped hands.

  “Fraughted ridiculous custom,” Maret muttered.

  TWENTY-THREE

  manifest, n.

  Etymology: classical Latin manifestus: evident clear, plain, palpable; probably manus: hand + -festus: the second element also of infestus: hostile, harmful.

  Definition:

  a list or inventory.

  a public declaration; a public statement, a manifesto.

  There was little time to enact her deal with Maret. Andra was ushered from meeting to meeting, from appearance to appearance. Though she no longer needed to inventory the palace ’bots, new ones were still brought to her every evening. She checked each for tech’scanners and AI abilities, even though she knew it was futile. The sole AI in the palace was hidden by Maret, and he wouldn’t give it up unless she got Zhade out of Eerensed.

  The only times she saw Zhade were goddess lessons, which continued even though she no longer needed tech scraps in return. Each evening they met in the First Goddess’s rooms, dust sparkling in the light of kinetic orbs, and each evening Andra tried a different approach.

  The first tactic she tried was subtlety—even though she’d never been good at it. They’d just finished goddess lessons, and she’d sidled up to Zhade, heart skipping. He was packing the set of sim’drones they’d “sorcered” to perform fake miracles—crude visual and auditory sims of lightning and thunder.

  “Good for smiting,” Zhade had said. It was a desperate solution. Any sorcer could program a sim. It was nothing the people hadn’t seen before and wouldn’t necessarily prove Andra’s deity. They needed something bigger, something unique, but the Third Festival was four days away and Andra was running out of time. Apparently, if Tsurina had her way, Zhade would be running out of time too.

  “So,” Andra said to Zhade.

  Lilibet was looking through the First’s collection of dresses. Lew-Eadin hadn’t joined them since reuniting with his girlfriend.

  Zhade looked up from what he was doing, eyes narrowing. “You want something.”

  Andra coughed. “Why would you say that?”

  He set down his pack and leaned against the bedpost. He held up a finger. “One, because you didn’t complain once during the full lesson. Two.” He added another finger. “You complimented me o
n my hair when you arrived, which you never do though always should. And three.” Another finger. “I’m a full brill sorcer and mereish reck things.”

  Andra showed him one of her fingers, a gesture that was lost on him.

  She sighed. “I was just wondering why you came back to Eerensed only to be a guard in a palace that belongs to you.”

  His eyes cut to Lilibet, but she was holding a gold gown to herself and twirling in front of a mirror. As far as she knew, Zhade was nothing more than a palace guard who happened to know Andra’s secret lack of deity.

  “Why would I rather live under a gods’ dome and sleep in a real bed and be among my old friends than wander the Wastes running from pockets and pirates? Is that what you’re asking? Why do I want to be safe?”

  But you’re not safe, Andra thought.

  “The ’dome won’t last much longer.”

  “Ah, but I’ll still have the bed.” Zhade turned back to the sim’drones. “Are you trying to be riddens of me?”

  “No!” she said a bit too quickly. If he’d been looking, he would have seen guilt cross her face. “No. It’s just . . . I don’t know what’s in this for you.”

  He was still for a moment, and then went back to packing. “Maybe I don’t reck yet either,” he said, but Andra didn’t believe him. “Can’t I mereish want to protect my city?”

  Andra turned to go, then stopped. “What if . . . what if instead of the ’drones performing the miracle, they caused a disturbance. What if the miracle was me stopping them?”

  Zhade nodded, eyes glazed. “Like an attack on the city. An army that you defeat, but is actualish mereish a glamour spelled to dissolve at magic words. That could work.” He gave her a smile that almost seemed proud.

  It was risky. Sims were never quite believable as reality, but if the attack was short and Andra’s response swift, it would be a start to securing her deity.

  “And . . .” Andra scratched the back of her neck. “You could launch the sims from outside the ’dome?”

  Zhade gave her a suspicious look, but didn’t respond.

  He seemed done with the conversation, so she tried again the next night, this time mentioning the idea of rescuing people from the Wastes. She hoped to appeal to his sense of humanity, but he merely shrugged and asked why. The third night, she planned to flirt with him, but before she’d built up the nerve, he’d turned to her, arms crossed.

  “I don’t reck why you want me to peace, but I’m not. So drop the convo, seeya?”

  So by the night of the festival, she was no closer to getting Zhade to leave. No closer to getting access to the AI and fixing the ’dome. She just had to trust Maret would give her more time.

  At least the “miracle” was ready. Halfway through the festival, Zhade would release the sim’drones, programmed with synchronized projected simulations. To the crowd, it would look like a group of Wastern pirates was attacking the courtyard. In order to sell the illusion, they’d included tactile sims as well as visual and auditory, but Andra made Zhade promise no one would be really hurt. She still didn’t like it. Any simmed pain the people felt would be real enough to them.

  The sims were set on five-minute loops, but Andra would stop them with her “goddess powers” long before then. They were programmed to dissolve at her command, pixels scattered on the wind, the attackers disappearing before the people’s eyes.

  Andra was filled with nerves as she entered the courtyard for the Third Festival. It had been decked out for the occasion. Flickering candles lit a glossy tile path through the lush oasis, littered with red and purple fringed pillows. Palms and ferns sprouted between tropical plants, and a porcelain fountain sat at the center of the courtyard, water trickling over its shell-shaped basins from the mouth of a swan (with dragon wings—Andra wasn’t sure anyone here had actually seen a swan).

  The courtyard teemed with the citizens of Eerensed, the cast-iron gate thrown open to allow the party to continue in the city streets. The warm smell of butter cookies drenched the night air, and the hum of thousands of voices was occasionally punctuated by the shrieks of playing children or a high chorus of laughter.

  Andra sat with her back to the palace wall, and several feet in front of her was a barricade of guards and armed ’bots prohibiting people from coming any closer. Citizens waited in a long line, approaching one at a time to make requests. She predicted she would get a third of the way through the line by the time Zhade released the sims. Her stomach clenched in anticipation.

  The festival was open to the entire city—even the poorer sections—and most of the people were just happy to see her. She did, however, notice groups of people who eyed her suspiciously, a few getting in line to ask her pointed questions about when she intended to fix the ’dome. They were usually ushered away before she had a chance to respond.

  The line of those waiting to meet her slowly proceeded, and Andra tugged at the diaphanous material of her dress where it cinched at the waist. She imagined Lilibet slapping her hand away.

  Stop fidgeting, you spoon.

  The time chimes struck eight abell. Fifteen more minutes. She tried not to look at Zhade. For once, he was stationed as part of her guard, rather than the Guv’s. Andra wondered if Maret was doing it on purpose—trying to get them to spend more time together so Andra could convince Zhade to leave. The bastard prince stood next to her, surveying the crowd, his face carved into a lazy almost-grin. His muscles were tight as though he had forced them into position, trying to appear relaxed though he had a remote trigger in his pocket for fifty sim’drones. Andra sighed, turning back to the queue of people, and recognized the next person in line.

  At least, for a moment, she thought she recognized her. There was something familiar about her features. A girl, probably around twelve. Bronze skin and a pile of brown curls knotted on top of her head. Her dark eyes were wide as she stepped forward, wringing her hands. The people nearby fell silent as the girl drew closer. She hunched over, shrinking under the gaze of the people. Andra felt Zhade stiffen beside her.

  “I have a gift for the Goddess,” she said.

  Another guard stepped forward and held out her hand. The girl looked between the guard and Andra, fidgeting with a bouquet of wildflowers.

  She swallowed. “I wanted to give it to the Goddess myself.” Her voice was small.

  “It’s okay,” Andra said.

  “Goddess, I don’t reck—” Zhade started, but Andra cut him off.

  “Guard. Let her pass.”

  The guard stood back and let the child through. The girl took a few timid steps, then the light from a passing kinetic orb reflected on something shining at her shoulders.

  A voice cried, “She has a knife!” And everything went to hell.

  The girl pulled out two matching swords hidden beneath her tunic. She dropped the flowers. Before they hit the ground, Kiv was there, shielding Andra. The girl slid between his legs. There was a flash of silver, then a spurt of red at Kiv’s ankles.

  She took another guard out at the knees. As he fell, the girl used his thigh and shoulder as stepping stones, propelling herself forward. She grabbed the next approaching sentry, twisting his body. His outstretched sword nicked his comrade’s shoulder.

  Andra couldn’t move.

  The guards lay at the girl’s feet, unconscious or incapacitated. For a moment, she was still, her swords splayed at her sides, blood dripping from the tips onto the tile mosaic below.

  Zhade stepped in front of her, weaponless, hands outstretched, pleading. But before he could get a word out, the girl had thrown her right sword at Zhade. It caught the fabric of his sleeve and pinned him to the wall. The girl darted forward, following through with her fist, but instead of landing a blow, she reached into his jacket pocket. In the same movement, she jerked her elbow up, catching him in the jaw. She turned, arm raised, and in her hand was Zhade’s icicle dagger.

/>   The glittering spike came down on Andra. She raised her hands, catching it just before it reached her chest. The girl raised her other sword, ready to strike, and for a brief moment caught Andra’s eye.

  The girl’s expression froze, then a blade sliced across her neck, splattering Andra with blood.

  The sword clattered to the floor, and the girl fell.

  She lay still, her blood coating the jeweled Celestias. Maret stood behind her, his own dagger dripping red.

  He’d just killed her.

  It was silent for a moment, then the courtyard erupted in chaos. People screamed. Someone pulled Andra back. She kicked, thinking it was Zhade, but it wasn’t. He was still pinned to the wall, mouth gaping, eyes strangely wet. He stood frozen for a second, then his gaze fixed on Maret and he lunged, sleeve ripping as he pulled himself free.

  “STOP!” Andra cried, but her voice was lost to the chaos. Kiv staggered to his feet, pulling Zhade back. Maret still stood over the girl’s body. She was just a little girl, and suddenly Andra realized what was familiar about her.

  She looked just like Lew-Eadin.

  Andra pulled free and rushed toward the crumpled body, nearly tripping over her own feet. She drew the girl into her lap—the girl who could be, might be, Lew-Eadin’s sister. Something about the way she’d looked at Andra—right before the dagger had sliced her throat—told Andra the girl hadn’t been trying to kill her. This was something else. Andra just didn’t know what.

  The girl’s eyes were still open, filled with tears. One slid down her cheek. Her lips were slightly parted, but no breath expelled. Andra noticed a slick film covering the girl’s skin as she frantically searched for a heartbeat that wasn’t there.

  Of course there wouldn’t be. Maret had split open her throat, but unlike the assassination attempt at the Awakening ceremony, he hadn’t done it through his crown, with a ’bot. He’d done it by his own hand.

  Anger coursed through her, and she picked up the dagger. It glistened in the low candlelight and sparked to life in her hand, a burst of rainbow colors dancing across its surface. She expected a shock, but all she felt was its power, something rising up inside it. Inside her.