The Inconvenient God

by Francesca Forrest

  Table of Contents

  The Inconvenient God

  About the Author

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  Other Titles from Annorlunda Books

  The Inconvenient God

  Francesca Forrest

  “I’m so glad you’re here, madam, so glad we’re finally taking care of this…problem,” said Mr. Haksola, the slight, middle-aged Nando University administrator who greeted me at the train station. “I can’t believe it’s taken us this long to decommission Ohin. That god is nothing but a headache. We’ll be well rid of him.”

  “On behalf of the Ministry of Divinities, I am honored to assist,” I said. It was a formal answer, designed to hide my irritation. The university might want this no-account god removed, but it was clear from their timetable that despite the service I’d be rendering them, they wanted me gone as soon as possible too. They’d scheduled the decommissioning directly upon my arrival and had issued me a ticket back to the capital for later that day. Consequently, I’d had to travel in my regalia, and now I found myself sweating, despite the autumn chill, and breathless in my weighty garments from trying to match Mr. Haksola’s rapid pace.

  Eventually, Mr. Haksola became aware that I was flagging and slowed down. “I’m sorry everything is so rushed,” he said. “Would you believe the only time that our grounds maintenance people have free to dismantle Ohin’s shrine before… Well, the only time they have free is shortly after you finish? Ridiculous. Too bad we realized so late that the decommissioning step had to come first!” An odd laugh escaped from him. “Thank you for accommodating us.”

  Once we slowed down, I noticed our progress across the campus was attracting attention. The silver bells along the hem of the black velvet cape of my office were jingling with each step I took. Inevitably people’s gazes traveled up to the seal of the Ministry of Divinities, embroidered in silver on the cape’s left breast. Some seemed merely curious, but on a number of faces I saw disapproval, maybe even anger.

  “How have Ohin’s followers taken the news of his decommissioning? Does he have many active worshipers?” I had assumed he wouldn’t. The brief I’d read on him, a mere two sentences, had characterized him as a very minor, very local god of irresponsibility and excess.

  Mr. Haksola snorted. “Not many, though they cause the university a surprising amount of trouble. In general, they pass their days either intoxicated or hung over. Their opinions are of no consequence.”

  “But…” I glanced over my shoulder at a middle-aged woman, well dressed in a fur-trimmed coat, who’d grimaced ostentatiously as we passed. She was no delinquent mischief maker, and neither were the other well-heeled passersby whose reactions I’d noted. I put this to Mr. Haksola.

  His brow furrowed momentarily then relaxed as comprehension dawned. He chuckled. “It won’t be Ohin that they’re upset about. Most people consider Ohin a joke—university administrators excepted. No, people must see your robes and assume you’re here to decommission Amaya.”

  I was flabbergasted. “The apple goddess? Why on earth would anyone think that? The Ministry doesn’t go around randomly decommissioning deities.”

  Mr. Haksola shrugged. “The public sees a representative of the central government and assumes you’re here for something important.” He paused. “Decommissioning Amaya would make people very unhappy. She’s well loved here in the Northwest.”

  “The Ministry knows that! She would never be decommissioned.” It was dismaying to think my presence could inspire that fear in people. “Amaya’s plaque is scheduled to be added to the roster of divine expressions of Abundance at the central shrine to Abundance in the capital,” I pointed out.

  At my mention of Abundance, Mr. Haksola shook his head ever so slightly.

  “This whole move from named deities to Abstractions that the Ministry’s embraced is very… People want to worship Amaya, not Abundance.”

  “The Ministry understands that,” I said. “That’s why named deities are grandfathered in areas like the Northwest.” For now, anyway. There had been a lot of wrangling over that decision. I made a mental note to tell my superiors that it appeared to be a wise move.

  “I trust the Ministry always to take the local situation into account, and I know it has the best interests of the entire Polity in mind,” Mr. Haksola said, in strenuously neutral tones.

  A thought occurred to me. Decommissioning Ohin shouldn’t take more than an hour, but my train back to the capital wouldn’t be arriving until the late afternoon. That left me with time on my hands that I could put to good use.

  “Amaya’s seminary is at Nando, so there must be a shrine to her on campus, yes?” I asked.

  “Oh yes—two, in fact. The one by the library is ancient—it dates back to the earliest days of the university. It’s on the historical register!” Mr. Haksola’s voice was warm with pride. Nando University is one of the oldest universities in the world. It not only predates the Northwest’s joining the Polity, it predates the Polity itself—by more than a thousand years.

  “Well then, how about I stop by and pay my respects, once I’ve finished decommissioning Ohin? Not with all this on, of course. Just in street clothes. Would that set people’s minds at ease regarding the Ministry’s intentions?”

  “That would be a lovely idea,” Mr. Haksola said, sounding genuinely enthusiastic. “We could meet at the university guest house and go together.”

  “I’ll see you at the guest house, then,” I said.

  Mr. Haksola beamed. “I’ll send you its coordinates,” he said, tapping his unicom. Mine chimed in receipt. “Here, see?” A map flashed onto his clipboard papers. “It’s a quick walk from Ohin’s shrine, which is…oh. Here, actually. We’ve arrived.”

  An iron railing cordoned off the supposed sacred space of Ohin’s shrine—no more than a patch of bare earth with one stunted pine tree hunched miserably at the back—which was jammed between the long, low grounds maintenance sheds and the overflowing refuse bins of one of the student refectories. All manner of undergarments dangled from the lower branches of the pine tree, and the ground was littered with crushed cans and broken bottles, except by the pine, where a girl in the drab coveralls that students across the Polity like to wear in solidarity with the working class was picking up some of the rubbish. She looked up at our approach, eyes widening as she caught sight of me. She scowled and hurried off.

  “That’s surprising. Usually Ohin’s devotees are breaking bottles here, not tidying them up.” Mr. Haksola’s lips compressed in disapproval. “This shrine is a blot on the university’s good name. In truth, I’m embarrassed to have you see it. If decommissioning were possible from a distance—”

  “It’s all right; it’s fine,” I assured him.

  My feet tingled as we made a quick circuit of the shrine precinct.

  “Interesting,” I said. “Despite the desecration, Ohin is still very present.”

  Mr. Haksola wrinkled his nose. “The less promising students keep him alive. What you take for desecration are their signs of devotion. These”—he nudged a spent prophylactic with the tip of his right shoe—“are his devotees’ thank you notes.”

  I stifled a laugh. It was clearly very distressing for Mr. Haksola.

  “Well,” I said, bringing my hands together, “I should get started.”

  Mr. Haksola surveyed the shrine again. “You’re all right by yourself?”

  I smiled. “I prefer it that way, actually. There’s not much to see,” I added hastily, thinking I saw disappointment on Mr. Haksola’s face.

  He replied, “No, that’s fine, quite fine. Just so long as it gets done. You’re sure you can do it in just one session?”

  “One session is all it takes for waning or for
gotten gods.” I assessed the tingling in my feet. “Ohin seems more vigorous than the Ministry’s brief indicated, but as a minor deity with just one point of worship, he still shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Mr. Haksola ran a hand through his stiff, graying hair and shifted his weight.

  “I’ll get the job done,” I promised.

  “All right; good. Thank you.” He hesitated a moment more, then gave a nod and headed off, shoulders hunched like an anxious heron.

  Different decommissioners have different ways of going into trance state. I like to walk the perimeter of the shrine of the deity I’m decommissioning, reciting the names of the gods that were worshipped in my grandparents’ day in the Sweet Harbor district of the capital. I usually follow that with a recitation of the principle Abstractions. This time, the beads of divine resin I’d taken from my satchel grew warm in my fists before I’d finished with the Sweet Harbor gods. I waited until smoke was seeping from between my fingers, then scattered the beads at the shrine’s four corners. An intense fragrance filled the air. I stood by the pine tree and waited.

  “Oooh, incense. Fancy,” said a lounging voice. Ohin manifested as a young, male student, in coveralls like the girl I’d just seen. In the conservative Northwest, young men often wear their hair shorn very short, but Ohin’s was long, tied loosely with a ribbon from which strands escaped fetchingly, like the hero of one of the popular melodramas.

  “You looking to get laid?” he drawled.

  “No,” I replied, embarrassed at the mix of inappropriate thoughts and feelings I was experiencing.

  “You sure? You look like you could use it, and I promise you, age is no barrier.”

  I bristled. Thirty-five is not that old, and I’m generally told I look young for my age. “Yes,” I said, “I’m absolutely positive.” Blood rushed to my cheeks, and Ohin laughed. He’s a god of delinquency; provocation is in his character description, I reminded myself. I took a deep breath.

  “I’m here on business.”

  The god leaned back on the stunted pine and raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry.

  “The university administration has decided it’s time for you to retire. I’m here to decommission you.”

  Ohin’s expression went from insolent to flinty.

  “The university administration can shove hot pokers up their asses,” he said, his words accompanied by a wave of searing heat. It was unnerving; I had not expected resistance, much less harm, in this encounter, but it seemed likely that my body had taken some damage. Nothing life threatening—I’d deal with it later. There was no way I was going to let this punk god know he’d surprised me. He was still scowling and staring me full in the face, reminding me of nothing so much as a defiant child, waiting to see what punishment he’d earned.

  “Look,” I said, summoning what patience I could muster. “The students are going to keep on skipping class and partying whether you’re here to preside over it or not. Think of decommissioning as a well-earned vacation. Other decommissioned gods tell me that living as mortals is quite relaxing.”

  “Well that’s dandy for them, but I’ve already had my mortal existence,” Ohin said sulkily.

  There was only one way Ohin could have already had a mortal existence: he would have to have been a mortal who was raised to godhood.

  “You’re telling me you’re an apotheosis?”

  Ohin executed a graceful bow, though his expression was still petulant.

  “Whatever for?” I asked—never mind that the question was inherently disrespectful. “And when?” It seemed inconceivable.

  “Dunno. I don’t remember.” Same sulky tone, but with something like sadness underneath. “They don’t remember,” he said, flicking at one of the pine tree’s dangling undergarments, “so how am I supposed to?”

  Ohin’s worshipers weren’t the only ones who didn’t remember when or why he had ascended to godhood. The Ministry’s brief had made no mention of the fact either. It had, in fact, failed to prepare me for anything I’d experienced at the shrine. It was a singularly worthless document.

  “You don’t remember anything at all about your past?” I pressed.

  Ohin waved a careless hand. “Guaranteed, there must have been plenty of this,” he said, tipping his head back, miming drinking. “And plenty of

  this—” Before I could stop him, he’d pulled me close, pressing his lips and hips against mine. Everything firm within me seemed to liquefy. Just as quick, he released me. I gasped and staggered back.

  “Had to have been lots of that, right? That’s who I am.”

  Was he asking me for confirmation? I could barely hear his words over the plucked-string vibrations of desire still thrumming through me. When I finally collected myself, Ohin was staring at me with a mixture of amusement and disbelief.

  “You most definitely need to get laid,” he said.

  “It’s you who’s the issue here, not me,” I replied, with as much hauteur as I could manage. I shifted my cape so it sat more neatly on my shoulders, but the jingling of its bells as I moved mocked me, given what I had to say next: “I have to leave you for now.”

  “So, I get to remain king of the class cutters? Not enough punch in your Polity toolbag to take me down?”

  He was back to insolent, and I could feel a headache coming on as the trance began to lift. “The Ministry of Divinities doesn’t know the first thing about you,” I admitted. “I’ll be back when I have more information.”

  “If you want to get to know me,” he began, a suggestive grin illuminating his face. It faded, and in its wake, Ohin looked tired. It crossed my mind that apotheoses might not be as immune to the weight of time as other divinities. “But suit yourself.” He stooped, picked up an unbroken bottle, tossed it in the air, and caught it. “I’ll be here.” He melted away with the last of the trance.

  The first thing I became aware of as I returned to myself was that the blast of Ohin’s displeasure had left me with sunburn on my face, and this despite my sun-tolerant southern complexion. The second thing was a tough-faced, middle-aged woman with a badge on her tan coveralls and a crew of five younger men and women standing beside an open utility vehicle and armed with mattocks, shovels, and a chain saw.

  “You done now, ma’am?” the crew chief asked, her broad Northwestern accent very different from Mr. Haksola’s cultured tones.

  “No, actually. I’m afraid not.” My cheeks burned as much from the shame of the admission as from Ohin’s anger.

  “Thing is, if we don’t do this now, we’re not going to be able to do it at all,” the chief said. “Look.” She pulled a square of paper from her pocket and unfolded it.

  “See? Next period we’re scheduled to join crews five, six, and seventeen to help erect the stands for the groundbreaking ceremony.” Infinitesimal Materials Center—Construction Groundbreaking, the schedule read.

  “You may as well go straight there,” I said, pressing my cool fingers to my hot face. “The god Ohin is still resident here, and he won’t take kindly to your dismantling his shrine.”

  “That joker? I don’t believe he’s even for real,” scoffed one of the crew members. “Boss, we should just do the job anyw—”

  A blinding flash of light cut the man off abruptly as he stepped over the metal rail. When my vision cleared, the man was lying on the ground, his face and chest blistered. All that remained of the top portion of his coveralls were blackened bracelets of cloth at his wrists.

  “Mother of Apples!” breathed one of the man’s crewmates, and two others dropped their tools and rushed to pull him from the shrine precinct. The man’s eyes fluttered and he groaned. I exhaled pent-up breath. He was alive.

  “Who’d believe the bastard had it in him,” muttered another crewmate.

  “Why didn’t you get rid of him?” the chief demanded. “Isn’t that what you’re here for?”

  “I wasn’t given sufficient information,” I said, helpless anger welling up in me.

  “Oh yeah? Well no
w I’m short a crew member,” she said, gesturing at the stricken man as if I hadn’t just witnessed what had happened. Then, in softer tones, she said, “Laktari, you with us? You here?”

  “You should get his burns treated,” I advised. “They’re serious.”

  The crew chief shot me a disgusted look, but ordered the others to lift Mr. Laktari into the vehicle. I took a deep breath and headed for the guest house. My mood wasn’t helped by my one glance back at the shrine. The student who’d been there when I arrived was back, and staring at me intently.

  On the way to the guest house, I sent several requests to the Ministry database. The procedure for decommissioning an apotheosis involves assuring them that the special circumstances surrounding their deification have either changed or—when a special mandate (protection, championship) is involved—been fulfilled, but that assumes those circumstances are known. Had any other decommissioners dealt with an apotheosis of unknown origin? And were those two sentences in Ohin’s brief really all the Ministry knew about him? I was hoping some queries about Nando’s history would turn up something more.

  Mr. Haksola was waiting for me at the guest house, pacing by the door, his rounded shoulders nearly up to his ears. He straightened when he caught sight of me and held out his wrist, pointing at his unicom accusingly.

  “I’ve had three messages. Three! From the unit sixteen work crew, from the infirmary, and from my superiors. That’s three ways that I’ve been told that Ohin is still with us. Still with us, and— and— injuring people.” He blinked rapidly and swallowed. His anger and frustration I understood, but why did he seem frightened?

  “Nobody told me Ohin was an apotheosis,” I said angrily. “Did you know he was? Does anyone at this university know anything about this god who’s been resident on campus for—well, for how many years? Can anybody answer me that? There’s virtually nothing on him in the Ministry of Divinities’ database, and no mention of him in Nando University’s file at the Ministry of Education, either—I checked on my way back here. And it’s vital information. An apotheosis is a special case; they can’t be decommissioned in the ordinary way.”