Rage of the Ancient Gods

by Craig Robertson

  “Okay, it's official. If we have a Christmas party neither of them is invited. Al, make a note of that. Now can we get back to the mission?” I needed to keep us on track. Plus any chance to take a swipe at Al was not to be dismissed.

  “Als, if you hear any mention of neutral matter outside this ship, let me know at once,” instructed Toño.

  “And keep pumping out the bugs. Make sure you place a bunch on Beal's Point and all roads leading up to it,” I added.

  “What if it's sent by air?” asked a voice at the open portal.

  I didn't even need to turn. It was the ghost who haunted only me. “Gee, long time no see. Wait, sorry, you don't have eyes. That remark could be interpreted as insensitive, so I retract it.”

  “Sticks and stones, Jon. You are free to say whatever you will.”

  Great. Now the apparition was getting eloquent. An orator ghost. Just what everyone needed.

  “Did that etherial manifestation pass though our full membrane?” asked a very serious Al.

  “Yeah, he kind of does,” I replied.

  “But that's impossible,” said Stingray.

  “Welcome to my world,” I responded.

  “Funny, it's mine too,” said the cloud.

  “Ghost, how is it you can pass through a space-time congruity manipulator?” challenged Al.

  “Beats me,” he responded. “I just walk in a straight line and bingo, I'm in.”

  “He rather sounds like Form One,” observed Stingray.

  “Let's not insult him before we get to know him, deary-smakers.”

  “Well, you can't do it by walking in a straight line because you got no feet,” I snapped.

  “I stand corrected.”

  Milton Berle's ghost? I prayed not. Eternity would be a whole hell of a lot longer with that around.

  “Is there a reason for your present irritating interruption?” I asked.

  “Now there you go again, Jon,” he replied. “I have never for one second left your side. We're inseparable, you and I.”

  “Fortunately for me that's incorrect. You come and go like lady luck herself.” I gestured to the others. “Go ahead, ask anyone.”

  “To try and disabuse me of what I know to be true? Silly boy.”

  “And you're here now and forever because?”

  “Oh, well I wanted to say I love our new plan. The bugging devices are brilliant.”

  “Please, Mr. Ghost,” requested an emphatic Stingray, “don't say that. Some individuals are still smarting from that adjective's recent application.”

  “Sorry. No problema.”

  “How is it you …” I stopped. I knew his maddening answer would be he knew because he was here the whole time. “You approve of our bugging intervention then?”

  “Yes. No one will ever find out because, well, no one's looking for bugs. But also, no one would ever suspect anyone would plant them. It's foreign to their mindset. Bri … eh, nice idea.”

  “Can I use you as job reference?” I snarked.

  “I'd have trouble typing a letter of reference, so best not to.”

  “Do you know anything about the neutral matter? Where it's generated?” asked Toño, a clearer head than mine regarding the ghost.

  “Yes, Doctor, I do.”

  “Care to share with the rest of the class?” I pressed.

  “Certainly. It's created magically.”

  “It is?” queried Toño. He rubbed his chin. “Hadn't considered that. I assumed they used an accelerator or some such device.”

  Oh no. The Cleinoids have no science as we know it.”

  “As we? You one of us now, ghosty?” I asked.

  “What part of me isn't we?”

  I wagged a hand in the air. “Not touching that abhorrent sentence.”

  “Do they make it all at once?” asked Toño.

  “I assume so. That's the general pattern.”

  “And will they whip it up at Beal's Point, or elsewhere and ship it?” Toño leaned forward in anticipation of the answer. Everything rode on it.

  “It is fabricated in the Middle Chambers. To perform work on the point is considered to be in poor taste. Plus accidents have occurred and major explosions resulted. Very messy.”

  “Gods have accidents while conducting magic?” Sapale asked incredulously.

  “They make lots of mistakes. At least the Cleinoids do. I can't speak for other gods.”

  “Naturally,” I responded.

  “They mistook you for gods of their species. That's fairly egregious if you were to poll me.”

  “Don't tempt me,” I said rather childishly.

  Everyone with eyes stared at me.

  “How about you, ghost,” I asked. “You a mistake?”

  “Interesting question,” he replied.

  “I didn't mean it to be. I'm just wondering.”

  “And now I am too. Thank you for giving me a task. Haven't had one of those … well, in forever.”

  “I live to serve.”

  “Does the fabrication process take long?” questioned Toño.

  “No, an hour maybe.”

  “Als,” he said loudly, “flood the Middle Chambers with bugs.”

  “On it,” responded Stingray.

  “If you had to guess, when do you think they'll produce the neutral matter?” asked Toño.

  “I'd guess tomorrow midafternoon.”

  “That's a fairly specific guess,” returned Doc.

  “I cheated. I overheard that's when it would be done.”

  Toño furrowed his brow. “Als, why is it he overheard but we didn't?”

  “I … I have no idea,” Al responded in a hesitant tone.

  “Fry up some bad times,” said the ghost.

  “I beg your pardon, apparition?” Al said in a huff.

  “Fry up some bad times. That's what they call generating neutral matter. What, you think a bunch of uneducated non-scientific lazy-ass gods would call neutral matter neutral matter? They don't even have a notion what conventional matter is, let alone antimatter. Come on, team, think petulant ten-year-olds here.”

  “Oh,” squeaked Toño. “I suppose that's a good assumption.”

  “Eight hundred thirty-seven times. That's how many times the expression has been used today alone,” reported Al.

  “Well better late than never,” I said.

  “And better from an annoying ghost than not knowing at all,” the annoying ghost added.

  “Hey,” I shot over to Toño and Sapale, “he said it, not me.”

  They both had the same response: they both made a hmm sound. Weird.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Waiter, my soup is cold,” barked Wiloramou-2a. He waved a wing in the air, summoning the fool yet again.

  “Sir?” the ground-crawling decaped asked as he arrived, his head lolling in possible deference.

  In the condescending tone all Quiverites directed to the servile Merronqui, Wiloramou-2a chastised, “My soup is cold. I have called you three times to tell you it is cold. Three times you have returned with a bowl of cold soup. You are incompetent, a disgrace, and laughably inept. I want you to—and please listen this time—take this frigid swill away, go to the kitchen and bring me ratoril soup at the temperature it is supposed to be enjoyed at.”

  “Is this bowl cold, lord?” asked the waiter in defiance of being tipped well.

  “I demanded you listen, you genetic misfit, yet you did not. My soup is cold. Yes, my soup is cold. Hey there, fella, my soup is cold. Do you require me to say it in any other manner?”

  “If you wish to you may, master. I however did not enquire about your soup. I asked if your bowl was cold.”

  “I'm not consuming the bowl. If it were ten thousand degrees it would not matter, the soup in it would still be cold.”

  “Respectfully, highness, not for long. In no time at all your soup would boil and evaporate.”

  Wiloramou-2a thrilled his wings in agitation. “Why are we having this moronic conversation? My bowl is n
ot ten thousand degrees. My soup is cold. You're still worthless. Fetch me what I ordered before I die of hunger.”

  “Is that an imminent possibility, oh great one? If it is, the patron at table eight I'm told is a physician. I can bring her to you if that meets your desires and general view of life.”

  “I do not want you to bring me that physician, I want you to bring me non-cold soup.”

  “Very well, your eminence. Now, as I live to serve and die a little inside each time I fall short of a patron's expectations, allow me to clarify. Non-cold I can do. Non-cold, in fact, I'm honored to do. That said, I must, as I owe you my employment and the security of my loving family, mention that there are two general directions non-cold can go in.” The waiter—Lis was his name because he did have one—raised all his left legs to reinforce one option's polarity. “In one direction your soup could be colder than non-cold. That includes your frozen, slushy slurry, and mixed in crème anglaise with an eye toward serving it as an ice cream.” Lis set the one set of legs down and raised the other side's. “Alternately …”

  “Stop speaking, you diabolical …”

  “Sire,” Lis shouted in a manner no Merronqui had ever been heard to employ when addressing a Quiverite. “Cease and desist interrupting. I cannot serve you professionally, which is my only reward in this difficult and often painful life, if you do not allow me to appraise you fully of the menu options, such as they are. To do less would be to sell you short. That is beneath me, el supremo. Not going there. Now,” Lis could continue since his legs were still aloft on one side, “the other semicircle of options expand to include your warm, hot, very hot, boiling, flambéed, and molten soups.”

  Lis looked to Wiloramou-2a to see if he had any questions. The patron sat dumbstruck and mute. Lis took that to be both a good sign and one indicating he should proceed in his clarification.

  “Now, distinguished client, which temperature or range of temperatures would most closely approximate your desires regarding your ratoril soup's thermal disposition?”

  Wiloramou-2a took a moment to compose himself. “I no longer want ratoril soup. I can't take it any longer.” He began to softly weep, a rare act indeed for a Quiverite.

  “Ah, thank you for sharing, impeccable one. That not surprisingly brings to my mind two questions. One, is it the ratoril soup you can no longer take or is it some other force or factor I, your humble waiter, might intercede with and in so doing make your life even slightly more enjoyable?”

  “I …”

  “Sir patron,” exclaimed Lis with profound indignation. “We've covered this ground before. I cannot accomplish what the Ten Gods intended for me to do in this life if you do not permit me to worship you by making you fully aware of your options. Options, governor. Those are the key here. You ignore an option now and then bang, it hits you not twenty minutes later you did, and you regret it the rest of your days. To revisit the direction of my attempt at utility, the second question, which is not wholly independent of my first, is that if you no longer desire ratoril soup, is there any alternate soup we serve that you'd care to enjoy?”

  Wiloramou-2a was folding into the same shape he'd been in when he was still in his egg. His tears had been dried by his acute and all-consuming depression.

  “This'd be as good a time as any to respond, my raison d'être. I can come back if you'd like also.”

  The patron squeezed even tighter into a ball.

  “Shall I bring you that physician we discussed earlier? You don't look good, if I might be so bold to point out.”

  “I … I do not want medical aide. I do not want soup. I do not want you.”

  “Those are facts I will treasure until the Ten Gods summon me home, boss. The specific mention that you do not want to attempt to breed with me gives me incalculable reassurance and relief. I'm a happily married Merronqui, if it helps you to know.”

  Wiloramou-2a was able to lift his head slightly from his crumpled configuration. “Sex with you? How revolting. I'd sooner die.”

  Lis produced from seemingly nowhere a massive wooden war hammer. “I live to serve, master of shit.”

  Lis began pummeling Wiloramou-2a mercilessly. He pulverized the overlord until he was not a he but a puddle of bloody pudding. Lis continued to slam the hammer down on the remains with undivided ferocity. Finally the weapon broke through the floor. The ooze that once wanted non-cold ratoril soup seeped into the soil beneath the restaurant and was chilled to a non-warm temperature. All the while the other diners saw nothing, for what appeared to them as Lis did not permit them to.

  Fisewih, the god of wile, tossed the stained hammer into the hole it had forged. He then went to the next table he'd been assigned to in order to serve them similarly. Life was good, it reflected as it slithered. Life was quite good again.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  We had two options. Try and snatch the neutral matter right from the Middle Chambers, or intercept it later en route. The chances of being identified seemed significantly higher if we took it while it was still in a populated area. But if Vorc was inclined to be prudent, he'd guard it better on the open road. The caravan would be protected even better if he figured out that the destruction of the monuments was done with an eye toward stealing the resupply. We doubted he was that smart, but we had to factor the possibility in. Plus he was a god surrounded by godly helpers. Better to overestimate than underestimate in that setting.

  I decided on a mix of the two plans. We'd make a soft attempt to obtain it at its source. If that failed, we make an all-out attempt somewhere on the road. Since we had Stingray back we could also intercept a shipment airmailed to the point.

  The ghost had lingered longer than usual. Keeping in mind how flaky he was, I asked for his help but set the plan to not necessarily include him. I noticed again that he looked different each time he popped in. His once amorphous cloud was now taking on a vaguely humanoid form. Perhaps he was the lingering spirit of one of the many humanoid Cleinoids? Who knew? It didn't matter as long as he helped us out.

  “Can you go to where they're fabricating the neutral matter and report back to us on the layout?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to know the exact location, the number of guards, where they are, and how they're armed. Also if there's any surveillance system in place. Can you do all that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Okay, then go. I need that info an hour ago.”

  “The production is on the fifth floor, in a section labeled Materials and Synthesis. Six workers, all demigods with little personal power, do the fabrication and pretty much remain in the room. There are four …”

  “No, no. I don't want to know what it was like the last time you were there. I want to know what's going on right now. Go.”

  “I went. I'm back. I am giving you real-time intelligence.”

  “No, you didn't go. You've been floating here in front of me in one long annoying stretch.”

  “Are you mentally impaired? I left when you requested I did. I was not gone long but it had to be, oh, an hour.”

  “No, I'd know if you were gone an hour because it would have been a good hour. Look, when you leave you say you were never gone, and when you say you stayed you left. Buddy, you have reality backwards.”

  “Or you do,” the punk replied.

  “He has a point,” began Toño, “I've come to …”

  “Belay the philosophy, Doc,” I cut him off.

  He rested back, clearly a bit miffed.

  “Okay, rule one. I have time right. Rule two, you do not have time properly compartmentalized. Any questions?”

  “Yes. What's it like to eat?”

  “Wow, not what I anticipated. I meant did you have any questions on the new rules?”

  “Oh, sorry. No.”

  “Finish your report,” I wheezed.

  “There are two pairs of Montorial guards straddling the two ground floor doors and one pair stationed at the one rear entry.”

  “Any inside the bu
ilding?”

  “None that I see.”

  “So we got six guards and six employees. What's a Montorial guard? Is that like a palace guard?”

  “No. They are Montorial and they're guards.”

  “I give,” I snapped, “what's a Montorial?”

  “Hmm. Well, you remember those golem guards at Beal's Point?”

  “The huge things that tried to kill me to death just recently? Yeah, pretty sure I do.”

  “Fine, picture them only a bit larger, much stronger, and actually quite smart in a perverse evil sort of manner.”

  “They sound charming.”

  “Then I did a poor job describing them. They're ruthless killing machines.”

  “Oh. Now I'm scared.”

  “Jon, please don't antagonize our friend,” pleaded Toño. “He's helping a good deal. He's on our side.”

  Sapale agreed by growling. I guessed I could back off a tad and still let him know who was boss.

  “Sorry, ghosty. No offense?”

  “None taken.” He let that hang in the air a second. “When I do get irked, I just keep in mind the source.”

  And after I just promised to play nicer.

  “Okay,” I managed to say evenly. “I have the makings of a plan. If it works, fine. If we hit a snag, we bail and do the deed later on the road.”

  “Sounds good. What will we be doing?' asked Al.

  You two stay on the bugs, especially those to and from the Middle Chambers. If anything—and I mean anything—sounds dicey, let us know hasto pronto.”

  “Got it,” they both replied.

  “Sapale, you and Toño strip naked. I need to find a feather headdress. Be right back.”

  I rummaged through the ship's stores. There was no actual Indian chief's headdress, but I was able to whip up a workable facsimile. When I returned my partners were still fully dressed.

  “Ah, is there an epidemic of modesty virus going around and you two are down with it?”

  “I'm not taking my clothes off unless you give me a damn good reason,” Sapale replied hotly.

  “And I'm not taking my clothes off even if you give me a damn good reason.”

  “Why must I be forever plagued with amateurs?”