The Prey of Gods

by Nicky Drayden

  “Well, you can start with dodging that!” Muzibot says, surging life back through the instrument panel in time to focus on a flaming ball heading right for them. “And then keep us in one piece long enough for me to finish.”

  “Aye aye, Captain,” Elkin says, jerking the flight stick to the side.

  It’s an odd feeling, trusting someone enough to give up full control of your motor functions. The world swivels around, making Muzibot feel some combination of seasick and drunk and swept off his feet all at once. But there’s a lot of coding left to do. He builds in fail-safes, a subroutine that’ll erase sentience from the machines in twenty-four hours. It seems cruel to give life, just to snatch it away again, but Elkin has a point. Can’t have a million bots uprising in the streets.

  In the distant recesses of Muzibot’s mind, Elkin parries Sydney’s attacks, and though some land, they barely register. He’s so deep in code, so close. He pushes harder, overclocked processors pushing past their limits. He’s burning up again, the BlisterGel piping not able to withstand the strain of such severe impacts. Blue-gray coolant gushes out by the liter, drizzling down Muzibot’s legs, and leaving slick puddles in his sunken footprints. His code is sloppy, unrefined, but it compiles without errors, and right now, that’s as good as it’s going to get.

  His entire system sizzles from an impact so forceful it can’t be ignored. A quick systems check tells him they’re down to thirty-three bots, the rest, metal corpses clinging to him like barnacles. One arm is completely useless, but Muzibot’s still got fight left in him. He unleashes the virus, sent wirelessly on a seemingly harmless message. It surges through him, hard and quick.

  “It’s done,” Muzibot says to Elkin. He tries to get his bearings, but his sensors are telling him different things, thirty-three conflicting stories. Make that thirty-one.

  “Good,” says Elkin. “Because I think we’re done.”

  Another blast strikes through Muzibot’s system. Wires spark. Some parts of him are definitely on fire. Eighteen bots. Not enough to be much of a threat to anything, and yet Sydney doesn’t lose interest in the sounds of bots whirring into death, or the horrid sounds Elkin makes as the shock passes through him. Muzi can’t stand seeing the look on Elkin’s face so he shuts down visual input.

  She’ll sap their very souls, grind them into nothingness. No afterlife, their forevers spent together eating fruit under a lush canopy of green. “This isn’t how I wanted it to end.”

  “We’re not dead yet,” Elkin says. “We’ve got faith on our side, remember. Your plan will work. And if there is a robot apocalypse, maybe they’ll let me off easy on account of me dating one of them.”

  Muzibot nearly manages to blush. “I could probably put in a good word for you.”

  Pain arcs through them again, and for a slight moment in time, they become one in their suffering.

  Thirteen bots left.

  Chapter 54

  Nomvula

  The beast paces along the roof, its claws clacking against cement. Its muscles are tight under its skin, and its gaze is fierce, daring Nomvula to defy it. Wind whips at its feathers as it looks over the ledge and down at the commotion on the streets below.

  Nomvula’s so weak. She can barely manage to keep her eyes open, but there’s no way she can tune out Sydney’s irritated screams and Muzi’s shrill howls, and the awful sound they make when god and machine collide. Buildings crumble, and the stench of fire and death and scorched metal fills the air.

  A great emptiness spasms in Nomvula’s gut—a thirst that can’t be quenched with water. A hunger that won’t be satisfied by food. She feels like she’s going to be sick all over the place, not with vomit but with her very soul. She was stupid to waste her belief on these beasts, minds too tangled in the thorny vines of Sydney’s wrath to ever be free and whole again.

  The building trembles beneath her, so hard that cracks trace their way through the roof’s surface. That woman, the singer Riya, pulls Nomvula tight to her chest and tells her everything is going to be okay. The way she says it is so soft and gentle and sure, it makes Nomvula forget for a moment how truly powerful Sydney is. She could stay nuzzled up like this for forever, until the end of her days . . . which with the building shivering and shaking like it is, will be sooner than later.

  The beasts grow more agitated. Their watchful eyes stay trained on Nomvula, though, warning that they won’t think twice about striking if anyone tries to be a hero. They keep the man separate. Rife is his name, and they growl at him, slash at his skin if he does more than breathe.

  Nomvula has to try something to help Muzi, or they’re all lost for sure. Her voice scratches like death in the back of her throat, but she manages a whisper. “The gods walk among you,” she says to Riya. “Do you see me for what I really am?”

  Nomvula strains against the emptiness, forcing her wings from her back, not even halfway emerged, but it’s all she can manage before her chest fills with angry cuts. She remembers when she’d shown her wings to Sofora, how she hadn’t even seen their beauty. Some people refuse to see the truth, they refuse to believe. But this Riya Natrajan, she has some good in her heart, more than she will admit to herself.

  “Hush, honey,” she says, stroking Nomvula’s hair, her eyes far, far away.

  “Do you see me?” Nomvula rasps, then presses her hand against Riya’s chest. “Look hard, from within.”

  Riya’s eyes stay distant, but her arms pull Nomvula in tight. “Oh, honey, we’re going to make it out of this, okay? We have to believe it in our hearts.”

  “Yes,” Nomvula says, the word nearly choking her, but she’s so close now. So close.

  Riya Natrajan’s strokes move down Nomvula’s back, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing, each time passing right through Nomvula’s wings like they don’t exist, but on the eighth or tenth time, something changes. Riya’s hand catches in the threads of Nomvula’s limp wings. She looks down, eyes widen.

  Yes, that’s it, Nomvula thinks.

  “You’re the girl in the carving. The one with the wings. Not an angel, but . . .” Riya Natrajan shakes her head.

  No, you must believe!

  “You’re not just a girl, are you?” Riya says. She preens the threads now, like a mother cat with her kitten. “‘A child of man and god,’ that’s what he’d said. Lost somewhere between. I’m here for you, Nomvula. Whatever you need to find your way. But please, find it fast.”

  She hugs Nomvula again, kisses her forehead. The warmth of her lips trickles down, drifting like a feather until it settles in the emptiness inside Nomvula—just a drop of basos, but it’s enough to push away the nothingness, because now there is something.

  Strength comes too. Not a lot of it, but Nomvula can sit up on her own.

  The beasts’ eyes burn into her, their gazes becoming more intense. They crouch low, not seeming to be bothered by the building’s constant tremors. Nomvula has it in her mind to tame them and ride them to safety. Maybe it’s a foolish idea, but it’s the only idea she’s got. She stands and approaches slowly, legs trembling underneath her. She’s careful, though, walking that narrow line between predator and prey—not too threatening, but not too weak either—like they’re equals, like cubs birthed to the same litter.

  With a final step, Nomvula is close enough to reach out and touch the beast that brought her here. Its breath flows past her, hot and hard. Yellow eyes like daggers trace up the exposed flesh of her neck. Nomvula lifts her chin slightly, a sign of respect, trust. Then a hard tremor hits, worse than all the rest put together, and she stumbles to her knees and cries out in surprise as the beast brings its beak within a hair’s width of her face. It hisses at her, then cocks its head and makes a noise that sounds something like a chicken trying to cluck under water, only about a hundred times scarier. Nomvula wants to crawl back to Riya and nuzzle herself in her bosom. She wants to be a little girl again, but that’s something that’s not going to happen if Sydney gets her way. Nomvula stills herself. She can do this.
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  With a steady hand, she reaches out to the beast, her small fingers stretched wide. “I only wish to talk,” she says. “Sydney is a trickster. Her words are powerful, her promises sweet. But you can be truly free if you remember your true self. Free, like eagles, with the skies stretched out before you, far as you can see.”

  It clucks again, dodges Nomvula’s hand. Moves so fast, she does a quick count of her fingers to make sure they’re all still there.

  “Let me help you.” Nomvula draws upon her basos and reaches into its mind. Images are sharp and violent, men and women in white coats and stern faces, nurturing and torturing with the same hand. Nomvula knows this feeling with her own heart. “You must not blame them. You are not their poor judgment, and even if they made you, that does not give them power over you. That goes for Sydney, too. She will only use you until she tires of you and finds better beasts to do her bidding.”

  The other beasts squawk at Nomvula, but this one, it almost seems tame. It presses its beak into Nomvula’s palm. Freedom, yes, it whispers into her mind, then shows Nomvula visions of blue skies and puffy white clouds.

  Take my friends to safety, then, Nomvula says. And I will free you of Sydney’s chains.

  The beast rears back, bares its fangs. This one cannot, it hisses. Paws slash at her, slicing up her cheek. Riya screams out, and from the corner of Nomvula’s eye, she sees Rife disappear right into nothingness. Fear once more threatens to overwhelm her, and her gut roils at the thought that there isn’t enough time.

  All at once, though, her stomach churns with something new. Specks of belief come out of nowhere, building and building, whipping around inside her like a sandstorm. Hundreds of believers, thousands. Her strength is slow in coming, but it’s coming, gathering like storm clouds on the horizon.

  Rife reappears for the blink of an eye, right next to Nomvula now, and touches her shoulder. Her ears pop, the world around her fades to a dull blue gray, and the beast’s strike passes right through her. But the flow of belief has been choked off, as well. It vanishes right from inside her—the worst thing she’s ever felt in her whole life.

  “No!” Nomvula screams, but her voice is sucked up, like she’s been swallowed up in a bubble, cut off from the world. “Take me back! Take me back!” She pounds Rife’s chest with her fists, feeling powerless and vulnerable.

  “This building will collapse,” he says. “Any moment.”

  “I only need a moment! I’ll fly us out of here, if you’ll just take me back.” She looks him in the eye. “You have to believe me. Please.”

  Reluctantly, Rife agrees, and their bubble bursts. Nomvula breathes in deep, almost drowning in basos as it flows into her. Her wings stiffen. They turn from wispy threads to flat, golden blades, like dozens of swords piercing from her back. Live circuits trace their way across the surfaces in a maze of light. Nomvula may be powered by the belief of bots, but she’s learned that all life is important—even that of humans, as flawed as they might be—and so she revels in the faith, wherever it comes from.

  She thrusts off from the rooftop and catches herself in the air. From this angle she sees what’s become of Muzi—a mash of metal fused into the building. It takes her breath, seeing him like that, but for now her priorities must stay elsewhere.

  “Sydney!” Nomvula calls out. Two of the beasts swarm around her, hissing and snapping their jaws. Sydney looks up from her diversion, her eyes flicker, a smile spreads across her face.

  “At last, a godly adversary,” she says so seductively. “I grow weary of these soulless bots. Fighting with them is more pointless than getting into an argument with a soup can.”

  Nomvula bites her tongue, keeping the secrets to her power locked up inside. Their prayers ring like tin in her ears but grow just the same in her heart. “I can’t allow you to cause any more destruction,” Nomvula says. “I’ll give you this chance to walk away if you promise to never lift your hand in evil again.”

  “Evil? You are mistaken, sister. You think I’m doing this for my own benefit? My actions have been for the empowerment of mankind! Humans’ minds are shackled, souls lost in endless mediocrity now more than ever. It’s my burden to show them the truth, to teach them the real meaning of fear and faith and love all over again.”

  The buzzing in Nomvula’s stomach grows, becoming like an itch. More painful than pleasurable, now. It’s ire, raging up. Her skin glows all over, a soft red halo. It’s fear, Nomvula decides—Sydney’s fear, even though she tries to hide it. A god’s fear. Saliva wets Nomvula’s mouth, so much more than she can hold back. It drizzles over her lips, sizzles against the burn of her skin. The god-creature inside her goes wild, gnashing and clawing and screaming for Nomvula to take Sydney’s life, to make her suffer. Pain spikes in Nomvula’s gut, twisting and burning. Acid runs through her veins, but she hangs on to her humanity. Hangs on to her basos.

  Nomvula flexes her wings, causing Sydney to flinch ever so slightly. “I’m giving you this chance, Sydney. More mercy than you ever showed me.”

  “Haw! I saved you from execution. What do you think your precious humans would have done with you once they discovered it was your hands that brought so much blood upon our land? What I’ve done today pales in comparison to the lives you took so cruelly.”

  Nomvula recoils, visions of that bloodbath coming back to her, snapping the last thread tying her to that old life. Anger creeps out from her bones, feeding off her memories of being a victim, so powerless, so unloved, even by the woman who birthed her. Especially by the woman who birthed her. The god-creature inside breaks free, erupting from her chest with a force that knocks Nomvula back, so hard and so fast that she collides with the building behind her. Glass rains down, but goes to liquid as it nears her. Streams of ire flow from her chest like water from a broken pipe. The ire rises up into the sky, trailing wisps of white smoke behind them. It’s only a matter of time before they come raining down and obliterate everything like before. Tears stream down Nomvula’s cheeks. Sydney is right. Nomvula’s worse than a thousand Sydneys put together, because at least Sydney has reason for her destruction . . . a bigger vision. All Nomvula has is hatred buried so deep inside her that she’ll never be able to scrub herself clean.

  Sirens ring from above as the balls of fire slice back down through the sky, like the sun is weeping for Nomvula’s failures.

  “It’s not too late,” Sydney says calmly, as if they’ve got all the time in the world. “Together we can stop this.” She extends her hand to Nomvula. “It was unfair of Mr. Tau to leave you so ill-equipped. I can teach you,” she says. “I’ll be your family.”

  Nomvula shakes her head. Not that. Anything but that.

  “You still think I’m against you? I could flee here in an instant, and leave you to bear the guilt of killing thousands more. But I stand with you now. We can rule together.” Sydney slinks forward and with the broad side of her talon, she caresses Nomvula’s cheek. “I love you, my sister.”

  Nomvula throws her arms around her sister, savoring those words she’s longed to hear. She imagines the two of them working together, strengths and faults balancing each other, opposite sides of the same coin. She’d have a family again.

  Except she’d seen the way Sydney looked at her when she said those words—eyes intent on coming nowhere close to Nomvula’s. Not love, but fear and anxiety and cowardice. And cunning.

  “I love you, my sister,” Nomvula says back, and she really does mean it. Despite everything Sydney has done, Nomvula finds it in her heart to forgive her sister, just as she’d forgiven her mother. She hugs Sydney tighter, feeling the billowy clouds of basos inside her push away the ire.

  “There’s not much time left,” Sydney says, squirming. “Allow me into your mind so I can show you how to turn your ire away.”

  “There is no need, sister. I have already regained control.”

  Sydney tilts her head up. The rain of fireballs dances now, swirling down and around each other, leaving behind a graceful braid
of smoke. It tightens until a single molten rock pirouettes toward them.

  “Let me go!” Sydney shrieks. Her talons try to knife through Nomvula’s skin but her hug is too tight. “Minions!” she calls.

  All four beasts spring upon them, but Nomvula pushes into their minds now, easy as pie. Do you hear what she calls you? Minions. Is that freedom? Save my friends, and you shall be granted your freedom. Real freedom.

  The beasts roar out with affirmation and flap up toward the top of the building that grows more unstable by the second. Nomvula can only hope there’s time to save them all.

  The light from the giant fireball blinds Nomvula as she flies up toward it, faster and faster, heat blazing against her skin. She ignores the pain and pretends it’s a game, like the one she played with Mr. Tau, flying higher and higher to see who’d be the first to reach the sun. Nomvula tightens her embrace and imagines that Sydney’s screams and cusses are laughs and whispers and double-dog dares . . .

  All those things that loving sisters do.

  Chapter 55

  Nomvula

  Darkness whispers, beckons her forth. She is nothing but shattered bone and spilled blood. Nothing remains of her except the dullest of sparks, swirling in the nothingness, fading. She clings onto it, coddles it, knowing that it could not possibly be enough to save her, but believing it so anyway.

  Chapter 56

  Stoker

  Councilperson Felicity Stoker doesn’t understand how this huge rhionhawk problem landed in her lap. She oversees the Department for Economic Affairs, Environment, and Tourism, not animal control. But she’s worked miracles all throughout the past six months of her term—helping Port Elizabeth deal with the aftermath of the destruction, pushing for stricter bot labor laws, curfews, and mandatory R.A.P.I.D. Turing screenings for every device with an on/off switch. Plus she’d gone to ZenGen Industries herself, seeing that every single section of its labs was shut down until a full investigation of its business practices could be conducted. The media had attributed the destruction to a combination of an eighty-foot rogue military bot rampaging through the streets and a half-woman/half-eagle Zed hybrid who’d been spotted escaping ZenGen Industries. There was no mention in the headlines of vengeful demigoddesses or talking trees, and anything that couldn’t be written off as an evil corporate science experiment or an exposed robotic military conspiracy was pawned off as hallucinations and mass hysteria.