Rage of the Ancient Gods

by Craig Robertson

  “Someone is foolish enough to attempt to bully you?”

  “I knows. Hard to picture but dar it'tz.”

  “I have lost all reference points in my universe.”

  “Ah, beg pardon, gov. I don't wish to sound insensitive, but can we finishs my topic'a concern for we sally foth into yours?”

  “You and your topic are the disruptors of my mind.”

  Queeheg was uncertain how to take that comment. Then he recalled he was a barkeep. He heard drunk-babble all the time. Ignore it and do your job. That's what he'd always done before. “My basic tenet here, boss, is diss. I represents a group's blokes what feel Beal's Point should be fully a'stored as soon as possible.” Queeheg proudly drew back his filthy coat to offer Vorc a full view of his shirt.

  “Fix Beal's Point Soon And Make The Terrorist Swoon,” Vorc read aloud.

  “At's our slogan, sir. Put it on our tee shirts we did.”

  “You have shirts with that written on them?”

  “Yes, sir. Would ya like one? I believe I can …”

  “No. Absolutely not. Under no circumstances do I want or will I accept such a ludicrous article of clothing.”

  “Den I can count you as a silent supporter only?”

  “Wh … whe … Good sir. Why would I waste official time and effort restoring Beal's Point? If you feel morally impugned I suggest you get over it. Once the vortex is healed we shall all be leaving for a good long while, perhaps millions of years. Why fix something no one will use for an eternity?”

  “Yes, boss, you get it. Warms me heart to seez it.”

  “Seez what?”

  “Ya saids yourself just now. Why fix something no one will use for an eternity? Da answer is a'cause we don't want da terrorists to win.”

  “I do. I really do.”

  Queeheg lowered his brow. “Ya do?”

  “Yes, if it'll get you out of my life forever.”

  “What, beg pardons, does your longevity and me representin' a moral cause have a'do wit one anodder?”

  “Not one damn thing, apparently.”

  “You're not, and forgive me directness a'forehand, one'a da terrorist be ya, Mr. Vorc?”

  “No. No, I can't sayz I am. Curious here.” Vorc raised his hand. “Why do you inquire?”

  “A'caus'a you really want da terror-inclined to win.”

  “I was speaking in frustrated hyperbole, you moron.”

  “Dat near plain Hyperbole, sir? Not familiar wit either location, truth be knowed openly.”

  Vorc stared at Queeheg for nearly two full minutes. Finally he regained the power of speech. “Let me summarize. You and your pals want …”

  “Ah, if ya pleases. We're more an ad hoc committee dan simple pals.”

  Vorc began to hyperventilate. He closed his eyes and meditated. He meditated on Queeheg's intestines spilling out after Vorc had slashed his abdomen with a sword. It took time, but the center seat calmed. “You and your group wish to see Beal's Point restored as soon as possible so as to not allow whoever destroyed part of it to dictate your options?”

  “Yes. Mine'n me ad hoc committee's, gov.” He held open his coat so Vorc could see his tee shirt again.

  “Wow, that simple concept was more difficult and painful to deliver than childbirth.”

  Queeheg's face lit up. “You've born a child, sir. Dat's both 'mazin' and wonderfuls.”

  Vorc foolishly started to respond. Instead he caught himself, grabbed the nearest bottle and did with it what he'd done to the prior one.

  NINETEEN

  The War of the Whorl had dragged on for thirteen centuries. Millions had died, billions had suffered, and hope remained in no one's heart on either side of the conflict. If any creature touched by the endless fight were to be asked, they'd say flatly that life was not worth living, children should never be brought into such an abyss, and that whatever hell any party believed in was a picnic spot compared to their day-to-day lives.

  What had once been sovereign alliances run by well-meaning if overly bellicose leaders had morphed into mechanized computer-driven nightmare societies. There were no longer philosophical or belief differences that spurred on the armageddon. Martial law, one hundred percent conscription, and severe rationing were the new normals. They had been for centuries. Everyone knew matters would only get worse. It was universally agreed upon that those most blessed in the eyes of their gods would be spared further longevity. That was the only relief that would ever be an option. Aside from the AIs that ran all the planets and directed all the armies, death was what everyone longed for.

  But the machines had calculated that to rely exclusively on robotic fighters would be less advantageous than maintaining living participation. There were simply some roles the living served better at. With hyper-cloning, it wasn't like the machine-gods had to rely on consent from the biologics. No, sentients were cast into their bitter existence involuntarily. They would continue to be so cursed for generations yet to come. That was the price of their utility, and the AIs paid it without regard or hesitation.

  The situation, as reckoned by both organic and inorganic participants, could not possibly get any worse.

  Paramta sat at the control console of the gigantic space cruiser N-11-5539-Ao. Sentimental ships' names had long ago been forfeited to logical, orderly designations. With unlimited crew capabilities, the size of a warship was no longer constrained by biology or engineering. Her ship was the size of a small planet. That way more and more massive linear accelerators could be mounted in increasing numbers. Firepower had been and still was increasing exponentially. Because luck was dead to both combatants and fortune had long abandoned them both, there was unfortunate parity in the growth of ships, armaments, and lethality. AIs were AIs no matter which side they calculated on. Breakthroughs were now impossible. Developing a technological upper hand lasted only nanoseconds.

  The whorl of galaxy M-38 was a few light years across half its radius out from the galactic hub. It would have been comical to envision, if humor were not as dead as optimism, that a war could continue in such a small volume of space for so long. Six solar systems once made up the Ganfacorial Ascent. Ten more widely distributed systems combined in the past to form the Nanfor Alliance of Kingdoms. All those member worlds were located in the relatively small section of the whorl at that radius. One side, the other, or both saw, thirteen centuries prior, some advantage in attacking the other group. The reasons for the origins of war were lost to time. That there might have been justifications was not a matter to even consider. There were none now, and now was all anyone had.

  Low Commander Paramta fiddled with a large dial on her station. She was under the impression it controlled the ship's yaw or pitch. She wasn't certain which axis was which. Frankly she neither knew the difference between the two nor cared to learn their precise names. Whatever she did or didn't do would, if it did not please the bank of AIs, be overridden by the machines. Paramta's role, if she could recall it correctly, was to stand ready for redundant backups to fail and then attempt to defend the ship and repair the generally self-repairing systems. Her job was to be not dead so she might, if the statistically impossible came to pass, do something or another. She was also slated to donate some body part in the near future. When, why, and which one was not a matter she was privy to.

  “LC,” said a morose voice entering the room, “shift change. Didn't you hear the bells?”

  “Bells?” she mumbled to herself. “What bells?” She turned to see a new officer. Replacements were so common, times as they were, that it was unusual if each watch did not bring a new, temporary face.

  “Just kidding. Did Control buzz you in the head?”

  “K … kidding?” she whispered.

  “Kidding around. You speak Standard, right? You got two arms and two legs. I assumed you were NAK.” He raised his fingers in the air. “Ooooh. Maybe you're a scary real-life GA assassin sent to do me the biggest favor ever?”

  “What … what are you on about, Sub
Liaison? Kidding,” she said unsteadily, “and metaphors are not allowed in a combat zone.”

  “Really. Answer me this. What zone do you know of personally that is not arbitrarily labeled a combat zone by a machine?”

  She nearly fell out of her seat. “You know they can hear you, us, right? I'm surprised you haven't been vaporized yet.”

  “Do you want me to keep my distance just in case?”

  “Yes. I order you to in fact. St … stay over there.” She pointed to the far wall.

  “There?” he questioned. “No, I can't stand there.”

  “You can … Why not, Sub Liaison? I directed you to with the order I gave.”

  He shook his head with a big smile. “No. You gave me a direct order. That's how army people talk.”

  “I am not in the Army. I am in the Flight Reserve.”

  “The difference being you die at a young age in the vacuum of space, not the mud of some pisshole?”

  Paramta pointed to the ceiling. “You know they can hear you, right?”

  “You seem fixated on that possibility. Are you like obsessed, paranoid, and unnerved by your present job? If so, I say take a long vacation, plan a new you for a new future, then make it happen.”

  “What is your name, Sub Liaison?”

  “I haven't told you? Is it important? I mean, we crew ship N-11-5539-Ao in the 22h -0011001 Sector. Names are so passé, don't you agree, Perimeter NN-e/JJ60?”

  She lunged for a tab on her panel. “Security, come to Auxiliary C&C Deck 77921, Section UUo9 at once. Bring supportive backup.”

  “No, honey, you meant to say bring backup support. You don't want them sending psychologists with notepads. No, you want fighting grunts.” He balled his fists and curled his arms and grunted athletically. “Killers to their cores.”

  “You’d better tell me your name before they arrive or … or it will figure in my report.”

  “I just did.”

  She looked side to side in confusion. “No. I said tell me your name. You just did what?”

  “Right, I told you my name. Hey, you been smokin' and tokin' on duty?” He mimed smoking a cigarette.

  “You did not tell me your name and I do not know what smotokens are.”

  He returned an exaggerated wink. “Ah, gotcha. No illicit self-medications here. And yes I did. I haven't told you.”

  She stood and walked over to him. She slapped his face with all the force her unconditioned body could muster. “Your insolence will figure in my …”

  “Your report. I know. Say, where you been hiding this passion and more importantly,” he blinked his eye rapidly, “why have you been?”

  She struck him again, but more softly as her hand was beginning to hurt. “Name.”

  “I haven't told you.”

  A softer slap. “Name.”

  “I haven't told you, sir?”

  She drew her arm back but held it aloft. “Name.”

  “What we've got here is a failure to communicate.” He extended his hand. “I am Sub Liaison Ivan Tolu.”

  She looked at him with a rage and an enmity she had never felt. “No you did not. You said to me I have not told you.”

  “One question.”

  “Yes.”

  “You got any of that stuff you ain't smokin' left?”

  She slapped at him again.

  He easily caught her hand mid-flight. “Unless you're going to back that up in a meaningful manner, I'm done with the slapping.”

  “Take your hand off your superior officer.”

  “Not unless you specify whom you are addressing.”

  “You.”

  “I gotta name. You know it. Now say it.”

  “Take your hand off of me, Sub Liaison Ivan Tolu.”

  “Toluyet.”

  “What?”

  “In retrospect, it would have been more clever if I'd contracted I haven't told you yet down to Ivan … ah crap, you get my intentions.”

  “I have no idea what your intentions are.”

  “My intentions, I can assure you, are purely amorous.” He pretended to tap a cigar.

  “Where's security?”

  “Where is security? I don't rightly know. Maybe my mother's arms.” He wagged his eyebrows. “Or better yet yours maybe, waka, waka.”

  “You are insane. You will be deleted.”

  “Why hasn't Over C&C said anything?”

  “Over C&C? Over concern and compensation?”

  “Command and Control. What you said is ridiculous.”

  “I my defense, I did say I didn't know.”

  “Where is everybody?” she screamed, placing her fists over her ears.

  “Not here?”

  She began to sob.

  “Okay, sorry, I'm being a little rough on you, aren't I? You want Over C&C to chime in?” He wiped away a tear. “Make you feel better, normal?”

  She nodded through her distress.

  “Over C&C, say hello to the little lady,” Ivan called out.

  “Hello, little lady,” responded a mechanical voice.

  “Feel better?” Ivan pressed.

  “No, I certainly do not. Over C&C doesn't call me little lady.”

  “What do you want them to call you? Cupcake?”

  “No, not that either,” she replied in a pouty voice.

  He shook his head to clear it. “This is getting weird even for me.”

  “It is?” she said as she began to bawl loudly.

  “Okay, look, here's the deal, and I stress the word deal. I'm … I'm kind of a god.”

  “You're God?”

  He shoved his hand over her mouth. “Shhhh. She might hear. I don't need that kind of trouble. No, honey, I'm a god, little g.”

  “Lit-tle g.”

  “Yeah. You sure you're all right?”

  “I'm certain I'm not.”

  “I'm beginning to rethink this whole elevation thingy.”

  “Ele-what?”

  “Elevation. You ever read Cinderella as a kid?”

  “Did I read Cinderella when I was a kid or about when she was a kid?”

  “Either one'd do. It'd give me something.”

  “No, neither.”

  “In the closing moments of my interest, here ya go. I'm a god. I am, because I know you're going to ask and all, the god of dependents. That means I like having them, having them have them, a whole daisy chain of dependency. You got it? No wait. Don't answer. You'll impede my forward motion. Here.” He pulled her to a large view port. Pointing out it he said, “Pick a star. Any star.”

  She pointed to one.

  “Now go like this.” He made a pistol with his thumb and index fingers. As his thumb fell to the index, he said bang.

  She smiled faintly and repeated his action toward the star she'd chosen. “Bang,” she said with no conviction.

  The star exploded and was no more.

  “There, you see, you shot that star out of the sky. See how easy it is to be in control of nature?”

  The ship lurched slightly. Outside the window was an enemy flotilla, thousands of gigantic warships.

  She gasped.

  “No, no. Here.” He raised her trembling hand. “Pick one. That one, okay?”

  She nodded hesitantly.

  “Now do what we did before.”

  She let her thumb drop and said bang.

  The enemy vessel exploded with unimaginable force and ferocity.

  “Now pick another. How about that one?”

  “Oh no. That's one of ours. See the crescent and flower on the side?”

  “Yes, but does it really matter?”

  She giggled and shrugged. Then she targeted her sister ship. “Bang.”

  The cruiser erupted in an incendiary sphere and blew into dust.

  “So, back to here's the deal. You become, well, you become my friend. You and me, we do things. Interesting things. Say, you ever had sex before?”

  She bashfully shook her head.

  “That's one thing we'll do together.
Lots. Heck, we'll do lots of stuff a lot. And whenever you don't like something or somebody, you shoot your finger at them and they go boom.”

  She smiled a flirtatious, conspiratorial smile and nodded. “Can we go up to Obs?”

  “Obs?”

  “Oh, sorry, partner. The observation deck on top of the ship. You get a real good view from there.”

  “Obs it is.”

  Once there, Paramta systematically destroyed each and every ship in space. All the NAK ships and all the GK craft. Hell, she even took out several neutral freighters that happened to be in range. Then she asked to go to the hearts of the NAK and GK systems. There she destroyed all the planets, the habitable ones and the inhabitable ones. All the planets in all the systems were exterminated.

  “I'd like to return to my quarters now,” she said when she was done killing everything that she knew of that had once lived.

  “Yawzers, now we're talking,” was Nestil's response. Nestil was the god of dependents’ name, not I haven't told you.

  Once they were in her tiny quarters she said in a most demure manner, “Now there're just two things left I want. Can you guess what they are? Hint, hint. One has to do with me and you. Me and your body.”

  “I believe my best response at this juncture would be hot diggity dog.”

  “Oh you animal.”

  He pawed the air. “I'll try not to be too ruff ruff.”

  She set her index finger on his lips.

  He kissed it, then began to suck at it. It was at that juncture he noticed her thumb falling toward said index finger.

  “Bang,” she said wickedly.

  Nestil's head exploded into several rough sections, all bloody and all heading off in disparate directions. His decapitated body crumpled to the floor.

  “And now, sweetheart, the final thing I want,” Paramta indirectly addressed the corpse exsanguinating on her floor. She flopped onto her bunk and shut her eyes. She had a big old smile on her face. “I want to be alone.”

  The moral of this cautionary tale: Even though you're a god, if you're also a man, let the big head do the thinking, not the little one.

  TWENTY