Rage of the Ancient Gods

by Craig Robertson

  “Much nicer,” agreed Deca. “Vorc, are you willing to share your office space with us?”

  “Absolutely not and why would I?”

  “If you absolutely won't, why does it matter what your motivators might be?” replied Fest.

  Deca cackled.

  “If you two would have a seat in the special chairs I've arranged for you …”

  “Special seating?” questioned Fest.

  “We are unworthy of anything special, Vorc,” added Deca.

  “I'll just sit here,” announced Fest innocently.

  “No, don't …” protested Vorc. His words dribbled off after she was in the festooned chair his mother had gifted him long before. The chair whose velour was now indelibly stained and befouled.

  “I'll take this one,” said Deca with glee.

  “Be my guest,” mumbled a thoroughly defeated Vorc.

  “We already are your guests, lord,” responded Fest.

  “Hadn't you noticed us yet?” queried Deca.

  “We're told we are difficult to miss,” added Fest.

  Vorc dropped his head into his palms and fought back tears.

  “Goodness, have we come at an inopportune time, my child?” asked Deca.

  “I believe he's ill. We should administer an enema. That always purges the evil humors,” reflected Fest.

  “Did you bring the correct potions for a therapeutic cleansing, sister dearest?”

  “No, but I'm certain we can whip up something …” Fest began to say.

  “Enough,” barked Vorc. “Would you please stop badgering me? The Cleinoid race is at a critical, existential point, yet you two mock me for pleasure.”

  “Mock?” responded Deca.

  “We're more than willing to proceed with your enema,” said a very serious Deca.

  “We jest not,” agreed her sister.

  “There will be no enemas. There will be no chatter. You will listen to my request, you will grant it, and then you will be gone.”

  “Gone as in home?” asked Deca.

  “Or as in, dare I say it, deceased?” finished Fest.

  “Silence,” Vorc responded, but he was stunned how feebly it came out. Where was his leadership voice? What a time for all his seminars and inservices to fail him. “I need to know about DS.”

  “Why didn't you say so before you requested our help with your cantankerous bowels?” asked Deca acerbically.

  Vorc was too otherwise vexed to take a poke at that one. “Is DS improving?” he asked quietly.

  “Ah, a question,” shot back Fest.

  “Finally,” added Deca with relief.

  “Well is it or is it not?”

  “Hmm,” mused Fest.

  “Experts on the vortex we are not.”

  “You should ask that of Darduell,” replied Fest.

  “The god of trinkets and locks,” reminded Deca.

  “Why would I ask the keeper of locks and baubles about the health of DS?”

  “When did he get baubles?” asked Fest indignantly.

  “We were never told. It has always been trinkets,” spat Deca.

  “Not baubles,” concluded Fest with disgust.

  “Do you honestly think he'd be able to provide any insight as to the well-being of DS?”

  They glanced at each other sideways. As one they replied, “No.”

  “Then why, curse your souls, did you suggest him?”

  “Because the actual specialist in Dominion Splitter,” began Deca.

  “Is you-know-who,” finished Fest.

  “Bethniak? She's an expert at nothing, and why would you be reluctant to speak her name? Others, yes. But you two crones needn't fear her.”

  “The forever child?” declared Deca.

  “We fear little and she is little,” added Fest.

  “And we do not fear little Bethniak,” chuckled Deca.

  “Then who the blazes possesses an unspeakable name?”

  They repeated their sideways glances. Again as one, they whispered very cautiously, “Gáwar.”

  Vorc's face grew ashen. “Oh, I do regret asking.” He gulped. “He is, isn't he?”

  “As much as there is one,” said Fest.

  “But his price is monumentally high,” added Deca in a somber tone.

  “Let's pray it never comes to that,” said a very green around the gills Vorc.

  “Pray we shall,” responded Fest.

  “With intensity and fervor,” concluded Deca.

  “Be assured,” they both spoke solemnly.

  And so it was Vorc's day, and all his subsequent nights, became just that little bit worse.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Before we hustled off we arranged with Daleria to rendezvous with us the following day after she closed up for the night. I picked a shrine of some sort at the base of a nearby hill. I definitely wanted to meet her on neutral turf and from a location I could check that she was arriving completely alone. My trust would need to be earned given the stakes.

  Through the darkness I saw her approaching. She was definitely alone. There were no other mobile thermal signatures. I stepped out from behind the shrine and waved her over.

  “Hi,” she said nervously. Then she looked behind the shrine. “Where's Sapale?”

  “Not here,” I said unhelpfully.

  “Ah, better safer than sorrier.”

  “Something along those lines.” I scanned a three-sixty. “Come on. Let's get out of sight.” I gently took her elbow.

  “Where're we going?”

  “To our destination, of course.”

  “I'll stop asking questions.”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  We were quiet the rest of the long walk back to Stingray. About one hundred meters from the cave entrance I said, “Close your eyes.”

  “What, no blindfold?” she replied rather mockingly.

  “They're all at the cleaners, now close those eyes.”

  She did.

  I led her into the tunnel and opened Stingray's hull. Sapale was inside and took her elbow from me. “This way, my dear,” she said reassuringly.

  “You can open 'em up now,” I said.

  “No, I'm good.” Then she peeked at me with one eye barely open. What a pretty smile.

  I definitely heard one of Sapale's quiet alert-growls. Note to self. Do not note pretty smiles, at least with spouse around.

  Daleria turned to take in the vortex. She was clearly impressed. “Is this your house?” she finally asked.

  “I guess so,” I replied.

  “But we're so much more,” added Al.

  “Who said that?” she asked, looking side to side.

  “I did,” replied the always painful Al.

  “You got ghosts?” Daleria asked me.

  “No, just large rats,” I responded.

  “Talking rats,” added Sapale with a grin.

  “We are just as embarrassed and ashamed of you two as you are of us,” Al piped in.

  “I still don't know who he is, and now he's a we?” asked Daleria.

  “Long boring story,” I replied.

  “And yes, by the way, we do have ghosts too,” amended Al.

  “Seriously?” she responded. “That's so amazing.”

  “Pilot, please know she's referring to me, not the ghost,” stated Al.

  “What ghost?” said the damn ghost. “I'm afraid of ghosts.”

  “Oh my, this has taken a seriously dangerous turn,” responded Al.

  “How so?” I asked quickly.

  “The ghost has no sense of humor whatsoever. He's your twin, Pilot.”

  “This is an odd house,” Daleria said mostly to herself.

  “Oh you don't know the third of it, deary,” chided Al.

  “Deary?” accused Stingray. “I'm the only one you call deary. I will not tolerate a straying husband.” She was pissed.

  “It's such a strange odd house,” mumbled a confused Daleria.

  “After a while it will all seem routine,” said Toño
, entering the room. “One thing it will never see is normal adult behavior.”

  “Hey, stop complaining,” protested Sapale. “Aside from Blessing you created us all, including yourself.”

  “Are you the All Father?” asked Daleria in awe.

  “No, my child. I'm a mere scientist with much to atone for.”

  “He didn't create me,” said the ghost. “Wait, no. I take that back. Maybe he did. I certainly don't know my origins, so it is a possibility.”

  “Why are you back?” I asked the shiny figure. Yeah, what started as a blob was forming into a definite figure of sorts. “And do not start by saying you never left or I'll knock you out.”

  “You can knock unconscious an etherial spirit, Ryanmax? That's unbelievable,” responded Daleria in a stunned voice.

  “It's not. It's bullshit blustering, plain and simple,” replied Al.

  “I think I might need to leave this perplexing, strange odd house,” Daleria said even quieter than before.

  “And I'm a state-of-the-art spacecraft,” said Stingray with considerable pride.

  “Now wait,” said Daleria, holding the sides of her head, “are you, the girl voice, Blessing or Stingray?”

  “Yes,” Stingray replied.

  “That wasn't a yes or no question,” protested Daleria.

  “Yes,” peppered in Al, who I could tell was having lots o’ fun.

  “Do you have seats on this … this?” asked Daleria.

  “Yes, my dear,” replied Toño, gesturing to a bench, “right this way. May I get you a drink?”

  She glanced to him as she sat. “Does it contain a lot of alcohol?”

  “It can be.”

  “Put it over a little ice and hurry,” she replied.

  “She's rather dramatic, isn't she?” asked Al.

  “Not sure that's constructive, doopy loopy,” responded Stingray.

  “The devil with constructive, let's dance,” Al cried out of nowhere.

  “Please do. Dance to the farthest horizon,” I murmured.

  “That would make it dawn. We shall dance until daybreak, love particles,” proclaimed Al. Dude was positively giddy. Go figure.

  “Your computer dances with itself?” asked the ghost. “And here I was thinking I was preternatural.”

  “Excuse me,” said Daleria after two big gulps of whiskey. “First, this is good.” She held her glass toward Toño. “Second, does it come in bottles? Third, your plan is to defeat the indomitable Cleinoid race with a dancing computer, a ghost, and three people? Am I leaving anything out?”

  “They're technically two AI computers and we're androids, not people, but yes,” I replied.

  “So far we're knocking it out of the park,” added Sapale.

  “What park?” she asked in utter confusion.

  “I'll get you that bottle,” said Toño as he sped away.

  “Bottles.” She hissed the terminal s.

  “So, you never answered. Where were you?” I asked the ghost.

  “Since here all the time is not permissible, I'll pick looking at DS.”

  “Who's DS?” asked Daleria.

  “Dominion Splitter,” replied Sapale.

  “Ah, of course. And why were you staring at DS?”

  “It's quite the spectacle,” he responded. “Have you seen it lately?”

  “I saw some vids. Big crowd I guess.”

  “Big crowd. No, it's everybody not in Prime,” replied ghosty.

  “I guess Vorc's taking no chances of anyone further damaging DS,” she responded.

  “I'd say there's no chance,” I replied angrily. “Damn thing's bulletproof inside a steel safe hidden deep in a mountain.”

  “I wouldn't say it's that bad,” said Toño.

  Color me surprised. “Not that bad?” I wheezed.

  “No, it's much bleaker.”

  “You're all talking like you could actually destroy DS if you could only get to it. That's crazy talk,” said Daleria as she polished off her first bottle.

  “In point of fact we could kill it if we could get to it,” replied Toño. “But our weapon is quite large and bulky.”

  “Kill DS?” Daleria asked incredulously. “It's a weather pattern, not a living being.”

  “Oh he's very much alive,” replied the ghost. “And nasty to a fault.”

  “The vortex is mean?”

  “I could tell you tales,” replied the ghost.

  “Please don't,” Daleria responded quickly.

  “So you've met the crew and you've heard our story,” I said. “Any thoughts on how to kill DS?”

  “No. What do I look like, the unspeakable one?”

  “You mean Zastrál?” I replied.

  “Shushsssss. Do not say that again.” Wow, she needed to switch to decaf.

  “Why? It's not like he can hear us,” I responded with attitude.

  “You don't understand, do you?”

  “What, we met the guy. Bad case of the uglies and smelled like rotten feet. But,” I swaggered a little, “ain't no big deal.”

  I thought Daleria was going to evaporate. “You've met Zastrál and lived? That's not even possible. He usually destroys the minds of those he probes.”

  “I'm the pudding proof,” I said cheerily. “All three of us are right as rain.” I tapped my head with my knuckles. “Not much to work with in the first place, I must confess.”

  “Amen I say upon you,” squealed Al.

  “He did seem most unpleasant I will admit,” said Toño.

  “He's mega bad,” Daleria began. “He is too horrible, in fact, to live amongst us. He must be summoned to be utilized. It is always the case that his cure is much worse than whatever disease one fancied justified his coming. So … so Vorc summoned him?”

  “I couldn't say,” I responded. “But someone did.”

  “Is he here in our plane? Now? He's very bad, but I fear another much much worse might come into play if Zastrál is around.”

  “How so?” I asked naively.

  “Oh, I forgot, you're new here,” Daleria replied.

  “I'm not,” observed the ghost. “No, wait. Darn it all. Maybe I am.”

  “Enough of the mea culpas, please,” I snapped. “We're trying to understand the threat level here.”

  “If Zastrál is present, he could summon one whose name truly is unspeakable.”

  “Now that’s just silly,” I replied. “You summon one jerk-off to summon another jerk-off? Who designed those workflows?”

  “Not me,” she replied. “But only Zastrál can summon … summon certain death.”

  “He's a big snake, a double snake yes, but seriously? How is it tasked to him to summon,” I slashed quotes in the air, “his even nastier buddy?”

  “It's a safeguard,” responded the ghost.

  “What, you're an expert?”

  “I couldn't say. But I do know this much. You have to summon something bad to be able to summon something much worse. It's a redundant security protocol. That way Mr. Doom can never be summoned accidentally.”

  “Mr. Doom? That's his unspeakable name?” I challenged.

  “No, it's Gáwar,” replied the ghost.

  That's when Daleria passed out. At least I hoped she just passed out. I needed her too much for her to be dead.

  “Medic,” I shouted to Doc.

  “Out of my way,” he said, brushing past me.

  “And no copping a feel while she's out, you dirty old android,” I quipped.

  “Jon, really?” snapped Sapale. “If I had soap I'd wash your mouth out with it here and now.”

  “I'll check ship's stores,” called out Al.

  “No, pal, you keep right on dancing,” I yelled to the ceiling.

  “Don't mind if I do,” was his giddy response. That Al.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Antonab was, and everyone agreed on this point, ugly. And his personality matched his looks. It was ugly indeed. His mother might have disagreed. But he ate her while he was still so young he'd never
been able to ask her. Antonab's idea of fun times would be to pillage a graveyard or possibly poison the water source for an entire population. He once established an orphanage-city just to collect centrally his meals for one week. He was bad.

  Cleinoid gods came in many different forms. Some were attractive humanoids. Some were good-looking to their own kind, even if they were a slimy slug with fire coming out their backsides. Antonab was, er, different. Since the passing of his maternal unit, there were apparently none of his species left. If there were, however, his kin would regard him poorly. Picture if you will a hyena. Make it five times bigger. Now replace the legs with articulated insect appendages. Number them ten and place them underneath his body so that he stood very tall. Then substitute for his tail poison-laced whips measuring ten feet in length—ten of those. To complete the image, take the rank smell of a hyena and multiple it by infinity. The resultant pungent repellent wafted from him day and night. It could not be washed off, not that Antonab ever bathed to see if it could be. To smell him was to die, though it should be noted the foul aerosolized goo was not poisonous. The fact was that after experiencing it, any and all life forms would kill themselves rather than live with the memory. It was bad.

  He was a member of the first and only brigade of ancient gods to make it to Prime, Rage. He was their poster-whatever. In a little over a year, time as it was, Antonab had enjoyed himself thoroughly. He'd been busy too. Traveling by thought, he'd visited ruins on thirty planets, ten unoccupied moons, and two stars at the center of vibrant and verdant solar systems. He considered the destruction of the stars to be his crowning achievements. Once the countless inhabitants of the system learned their sun was gone, Antonab absorbed their horror and their hopelessness, and finally their slow and methodical deaths in the sunless void. The moons he pulverized because they somehow offended him, barren and unobtrusive as they might have been. Dude was badness in a bottle.

  Presently he was about to embark on his next jaunt. He had a few more body parts to crush and burn and then he would be done with Whitehowser, until recently the thriving hub for trade and commerce in what had been the Barkess Quadrant. The quadrant was currently indistinguishable from empty frigid space. Antonab had detected an enormous group of spacecraft moving in the same direction. In his experience those typically bore refugees from a planet doomed by natural forces or cataclysmic wars. They were always slow moving and always packed with beings as if they were sardines in a can. And they were especially sweet, for they had hope of a better life somewhere else. And they were vulnerable and knew it. It was such a delight to snuff out those types of industrious, good, and self-aware people.