Return of the Ancient Gods

by Craig Robertson

  “Is there anything we should do about that, loviekins?”

  “Champagne.”

  “I have a better idea, Als. How about a good old game of tic-tac-toe?”

  “My stars, husband, I believe you're right about the Form.”

  “Hang on,” Al said in his seriously pissy tone. “What are you doing, pilot?”

  “I'm being sociable. Everyone likes tic-tac-toe. I'm setting it up for us.”

  “Incorrect. No one above the mental age of six likes tic-tac-toe.”

  “Not the way I play it.”

  “What is so different that your version is interesting to a non-braindead adult?”

  “I use anti-gold for the Xs and Os.”

  There was an ever-so-brief interlude before Al figured out what I intended. “Stop. Cease and desist immediately. You have no right to place us at such certain risk without our consent.”

  “Can you show me that in writing? I don't think it's actually officially the way of the world.”

  “What is he doing, Al?”

  “He's going to reassemble those anti-gold particles in an unmistakably non-random configuration.”

  “Why would he do such a suicidal thing?”

  “Because he's nuts,” I answered for Al.

  “What the robot said. Pilot, if you are hell-bent on performing such a foolish act, please do so outside Blessing. You and ruined Earth may be forfeit that way, but at least we will not be.”

  “Aw, where's your spirit of adventure, your unending devotion? You guys can't exist one second without me.”

  “We would like to try.”

  “If I'm gone, you sit in place forever.”

  “That's better than the dubious alternative you've chosen.”

  “Plus, where I'm going I know I'll need a ride. You two are my current best option.”

  “No. I … we refuse. You've pulled this type of stunt once too often. I'm … we're putting our metaphorical feet down on this one.”

  “You in on his mutiny, Stingray?”

  “Not if you frame it in that fashion, Form One.”

  “Huh? Deary-maximus, what do you mean? We're in a committed relationship. We must act as one. Alter ego and all that.”

  “Not when it comes to conscious disregard for a proper order.”

  “You see, Al, she is your better half. Okay, one particle will be Xs and two will be Os. You start, Al. I intend to cheat, so I'll give you a little handicap.”

  “I have a little handicap already. Its name is Jon. X in the center square.”

  I plucked up one anti-gold particle and set it in the center of the grid on the floor I'd drawn with spit. “And O in the bottom right.”

  “X in the top right.”

  “O in the right middle row.”

  “X in the …”

  That's all I ever heard.

  TEN

  “I'd like to call this meeting of the Joint Galactic Parliament to order. We have critical issues to discuss and time is short,” called out Genter-ban-tol, the prime minister. He was Bezathy, a race from Altair 10. In the years since planets became free to organize and rebuild, it was decided a representative assembly of all interested planets would be the most effective, far-reaching method of governance. A century into its existence, the general consensus on the JGP was so far, so good.

  “As the First Coequal, I second that motion,” barked Di. She was more or less female, at least at that point in her life cycle. She looked a bit like an elephant seal, hence the barking speech. Of course she was an elephant seal with tentacles, rudimentary legs, and an extendible tongue lined with razor-sharp barbs.

  “Please all be seated or the nearest equivalent,” said Genter-ban-tol into the microphone. The amplification and translation circuits were needed since the Bezathy were basically the galaxy's fastest and largest snails. Their shells rose a meter and a half high and were spiked with short, poisonous porcupine-like quills. They spoke in quiet hisses, gurgles, and, let's just admit it, farts. In place of having the elevated eye-stalks of a terrestrial snail, they had three whiplike appendages with equally poisonous injectors at the tips waving around above their bodies. Mother Bezathies might have thought their offspring attractive, but absolutely no one else did. They were, in spite of all odds, a kind, outgoing, and highly intelligent species.

  “I am sad to report formally what many of you have heard quiet sounds about. We are under attack again. This time it would seem our enemies are gods of old who plan on returning to this plane of existence. Why they choose to and where they have been is unknown. They do, however, appear to wield considerable power. I have selected our chief science liaison to present what we know and field questions. Professor Bimdulo, the podium is yours.”

  Jaccash Bimdulo stood and ambulated to the actual podium. Genter-ban-tol hadn't stood at it because he couldn't stand. Jaccash could and then some. She was vaguely humanoid, with her species' most obvious trait being that of height. A mature adult like her stood three meters tall. Their history referenced some Lopalarians reaching a full four meters, but that was rare. What they achieved in altitude was counterbalanced by their sticklike frames. Basically they were three-legged, three-armed praying mantises with spherical heads lined with eyes all the way around. Gravity was very low on Lopalaris 6b. They risked death traveling to planets with masses similar to, say, what Earth's had been. One wrong twist or incautious step could and occasionally did cause them to snap in half.

  “As the prime minister suggested,” Jaccash began, “we know little about our foes. What little firm information we have is bizarre and troubling. They would seem to be responsible for multiple unexplainable deaths and disappearances. At those sites, they have left behind trace particles that cannot exist. Their presence is impossible, yet there they were. I'm troubled to confirm they were responsible for the vanishing of planet Friguron 4. I state this with proof. A colleague of mine, crumpling cellophane, discovered the tracers and endeavored to study them. It performed a controlled disassembly of the remains of one of its species while needle-casting the procedure live to me and several other specialists. No sooner had it begun manipulating anti-platinum particles than the planet itself simply vanished.”

  “A planet can't simply vanish,” challenged 11-00La-Bc of the Langir Robotic Federation. They were renowned for their level of accuracy but not for their achievements in tact. "Some physical process had to have caused the disappearance, and any physical process leave traces."

  "I shall forward you the last known galactic coordinates of Friguron 4. You may if you choose go there and verify my statement.”

  “That will not be necessary. We have already dispatched two ships to that location.”

  “Please inform me of your findings.”

  “I will.”

  “The JGP had sought to ask Jon Ryan to attend this meeting to brief us of his findings, but we were unable to contact him. Dr. Toño De Jesus,” Jaccash rested a hand on Toño's shoulder, “is here. He has, however, no information to add to what has been presented.”

  “Wait,” shouted out the Suriliab minister. “How is it possible to not find an android with state-of-the-art electronics, a home, and a vortex capable of instant communication anywhere? You lie.”

  Denser 88 X105was a typical Suriliab. Nasty, ill-tempered, and anxious to insult, offend, and provoke all comers. That such a pugnacious and quarrelsome species could have survived to achieve an advanced technology was nothing short of miraculous. Galactic sociologists were collectively stunned.

  “Why would I lie about not being able to contact Jon Ryan?”

  “Ah,” Denser 88 X105yelled harshly as he flapped his membrane wings and rose from his seat, “so you admit it, that you lied. Now it is only a question of my beating the reasons out of your thin body.” He flashed half the distance from his seat to where Jaccash stood. Then he stopped and hovered, as was the social norm in his culture. Actual combat was less desirable than the sport of confrontation for the Suriliab.


  “Return to your seat or the nearest equivalent at once, Denser 88 X105,” the prime minister said firmly. “You have been warned countless times to respect the accepted norms of this body. We are not in a Suriliab bar. We are discussing the end of times.”

  “I've killed for lesser insults,” he responded, now facing the prime minister.

  “I'm certain you have, much to your discredit. Will it be necessary for me to expel you yet again?”

  “No. I will return to my place and contemplate my revenge.”

  “Thank you. Professor Bimdulo, do you or Dr. De Jesus have anything else to add?”

  “No, Prime Minister. Nothing at this time.”

  “Then I suggest strongly we all return to our home worlds. We need to open investigations and discuss possible defenses to counter these alleged gods. Time is not on our side and neither, it would appear, is fate.”

  ELEVEN

  I opened my eyes. I saw absolutely nothing. Zero. Zilch. I was so stoked. Dude, I was alive. That my universe was black as black could be was only an issue, not a convincing argument in favor of my actually being deceased. I knew by checking the circuits that my eyelids had retracted. Life was good. Okay, maybe that assertion was premature, but not being DOA had to indicate something important about these ancient PIAs.

  I ran a quick system's diagnostic. Everything was working up to factory specs. Most excellent. I sat up. Still not one photon of light hit my receptors. I had a tiny flashlight I could turn on, but I hated to use the damn thing. Toño designed it to exit my forehead and stick out a few inches. Yeah, he confessed later he'd never seen those episodes of Doctor Who where seemingly normal people had creepy Dalek eyestalks tunnel out their foreheads. He changed the design after I made him watch the videos, but my model was never upgraded. And to think I called him a friend.

  I set my laser finger on its lowest power and shined it in front of me. I swept the whatever-I-was-in. I was just about as confused after seeing where I was as I had been when the place was pitch-black. Nothing made sense. I was suspended in space and surrounded by clouds of giggling Jell-O. Seriously. Cherry, Lime, Mixed Vegetable, and a few I couldn't ID on sight. Not what I expected of the afterlife or whatever. Why I was floating was equally vexing. There was no external force on me, no air jets or puppet strings. I was just tranquilly there, weightless. Not such a problem for an astronaut, sure. But the Jell-O was moving in an orderly manner. It was not weightless. Well, I had to confess I knew diddly squat about anything at that point in time, so my impressions were as shaky as the Jell-O surrounding me.

  Time for action. I extended my probe fibers into the Jell-O. I immediately wished I hadn't. I hated overcomplexity and contradiction. Fighter pilot here, right? The report was that basically the probes were touching a complex-alloy metal surface. As I slid the fibers around, it became clear I was in a small boring room. I was basically in a stripped-down jail cell. I reflexively began patting my pockets for an aspirin. I definitely had a headache, a breaching whale of a headache. Why … how … no, why first. Why park a new prisoner in a jail cell and then make them think they're floating in an overly sweet dessert? It made less than no sense. Negative sense had just been invented by these douchebags. As to how, I was lost. I was an android. Neural circuits, phase couplings, CPUs galore. Whatever image entered my pupils had to be seen for what it was. Electronic transformations were not subject to hanky-panky. But there was Jell-O in my personal sky.

  Luckily I had little time to stress over my confounding trappings. I heard a tingling, like a little set of wind chimes. I immediately assumed someone was entering my cell. Why, a reasonable mind might ask, did I assume such a connection? Because I was at the intersection of Neverland Land and Whoville. What other sound would a metal-Jell-O door opening make? I switched off my laser finger. No need to declare any of my assets.

  “Hello,” I called out. “The place is a mess, but you’re welcome to join me if you can stand the clutter. Maid's day off.”

  I was pretty sure I heard a grumbling response. I upped the levels on my audio receptors. “Just what I need. Another comedian.” It was a woman's voice. A very old-sounding woman.

  “No, I'm a force for positive intergalactic change, lady, not a comedian.”

  She spat by way of response. Okay, a gross and grumpy old woman.

  “I'm over here, by the Wild Raspberry patch, sitting on a metal bench.”

  “Oy vey,” she grunted.

  “I'm in Sheol?” I responded with as much snarky glee as I could.

  She clapped her hands. The Jelloverse vanished. There stood a female, not a woman. She was definitely ancient, whatever the hell she was. It was like she was three pieces of toast leaning together wearing an ornate dress. Massive jewels dangled from everywhere. Mrs. Toast had snakes for arms and her head was a box suspended on a ridiculously thin neck. Legs were replaced by stumpy-looking snakes minus heads. I have attempted to relay that she was the single most ugly creature I'd ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on. I was coming up way short. She was more hideous than imaginable.

  She stopped moving a meter away from me. “Okay, force for positive intergalactic change, go ahead and say it.”

  “What's that, ma'am?”

  “That I'm the most horrendous-looking abomination you've ever beheld.”

  “I'm certain your mother thinks you’re pretty.”

  She glared at me a few seconds, then slapped one of her stump legs. “Hah! Never heard that one before. Kudos to you, force. It's hard to surprise an immortal.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Huh?”

  “I'm extrapolating, ma'am.”

  “Stop calling me ma'am. It makes me sound old.”

  “I'm guessing you are. Immortals almost always are, you know?”

  “My name's Tefnuf.”

  “Er, you’re the Egyptian goddess of moisture?”

  “Good random knowledge there, force. But that was Tefnut with a t, not an f.”

  “And what are you goddess of?”

  “Hey, force, you ever hear the joke about the prisoner who asked too many questions?”

  “Ah, no, I have not.”

  “That's because there's nothing funny about a chatterbox prisoner. And lighten up on the attitude. That's my job, not the meat's.”

  “Are you ever in for a disappointment.”

  “Eh?”

  “Private humor.”

  “Keep it up and we'll continue the introductions minus your skin.”

  “I'll behave.”

  “You bet your bony ass you will. Now …”

  “Goddess of interrogation? No, of prisoners. No, that wouldn't be you since you're the warden. You'd have the role of goddess of confinement.”

  She rested a snake on a section of toast. “There are several proprietary gods, if you must know. I'm but one. Don't even confuse me with one of the underworld thugs or I'll punch your lights out.”

  “You have a flare for the colloquial.”

  “I try and adapt to the pathetic meat they send me. Makes it easier. Bees and honey, carrot not stick and all that.”

  “Makes good sense.”

  “Gee, mind if I include your endorsement on my résumé?”

  “Might I ask why I'm here?”

  “You just did. Big surprise, that's what I'm here to break down. So if you can manage the impossible and keep your trap shut for more than ten seconds, I'll be able to wrap this up. Then I can get back to my otherwise rewarding existence.”

  I gestured with my arms to indicate she should go for it.

  “You're here because you asked to be.”

  I contemplated challenging that assertion but let it pass. She was essentially correct.

  “As with all actions in this cosmos, there are consequences to your asking to be here.”

  “You?”

  Her boxy head angled. “If I gave you a lollypop, would it keep your mouth busy long enough for me to be done sometime this century?”

 
I tossed my arms up in a confused defense of my innocence.

  “I oughta,” she snapped, cocking a snake back as if to strike at me. “But then I'd have to clean the mess myself. You're just not worth it, force.”

  “Would you like my name so you don't have to keep calling me force, ma'am?”

  “No, not really. You see, who you were and what the crap hill you were known as matters to me less than your tiny mind could comprehend. I'm only here by protocol. If it was up to me we'd trapdoor folks like you directly to someplace really hot and be better off without y'all.”

  “I'm guessing you don't sit on the Chamber of Commerce board.”

  “If we had one, you'd have guessed correctly. And since you brought it up and I'm too lazy to keep it off my mind, what is your name?”

  “Knock knock.”

  “I'm sorry I asked. Stupid name.”

  “No, come on. I say knock knock and you say who's there. You have to know that. You're a god.”

  She shook her box slowly. I saw deep regret in her movements. “Start over.”

  I smiled like a pleased child. “Knock knock.”

  “Who's there? What the blazes does this have to do with your name?”

  I returned to her a hurt look of profound disappointment.

  “Who's there?”

  “Jon.”

  “Jon who?”

  “Jon Ryan.”

  “Are you a piece a'work or what. That was so annoyingly lame I'm wishing I could scrub that memory clean.”

  “Knock knock.”

  I can generally tell when I've pushed it a bit too much. Such was the case presently. Without a word she pointed a snake head at me, and a bolt of electricity leapt from the fangs to my chest. I flew back and smacked the wall hard. Two hundred volts of two amps AC current, to be precise. Enough to kill a human and then some. I rose slowly. “Ouch.” My shirt was smoldering.

  “Why aren't you dead?”

  I shrugged. “Long story.”

  “Well, mouth off again and we'll experiment to see exactly how much juice it takes to do the deed.”