Lesser Gods

by Duncan Long

  “Sorry. Wasn’t watching where I was going. Got distracted by the gals in the sideshow.”

  His beady red eyes narrowed. “Well, maybe this will teach you a lesson.”

  I already knew the lesson.

  So the blade passed through the air where my head had been a moment before. Discretion being the better part of valor when fighting giants, at that point I normally would have backpedaled on my skates and hightailed it out of Dodge. Only that wasn’t possible because of the crowd that was pressing up behind me, busy placing bets with hundred-to-one odds on who would survive the contest.

  I’ll let you guess whether I was the one or hundred side of the betting equation.

  He made another lunge that I barely dodged. I found myself not scared, but angry. And my elephantine foe was mad, too, unhappy that I had had the gall to move my face out of the way of his sword, thereby making him look bad in front of his friends.

  He prepared for another lunge. I countered by drawing my government-issued Beretta from under my jacket. “Never bring a knife to a gun fight,” I warned, remembering Alice’s advice. The odds being placed on the winner of the fight instantly shifted, with many who had placed bets now crying foul at my unexpected change in fortune.

  My single burst of fire sent three bullets toward the monster. The projectiles neatly stitched Mr. Elephant’s front, knocking him to the ground with a trumpeting of pain — but no blood.

  “Lucky you have the new titanium body armor,” I said as he writhed on the ground at my feet, rubbing his chest. I kicked the short sword away from him. Knowing that he’d recover in a few minutes and that he’d threaten more unpleasantness if I hung around (since I didn’t feel right about putting a burst into his fat head). So I turned, waving the gun in warning to anyone else who might be foolishly tempted to tangle with me.

  Everyone backed away, in part because I was armed and in part because some recognized the weapon as government-issue. That meant I was either an agent or, more likely, someone who had killed an agent and therefore living on borrowed time.

  The sea of people parted as I boogied through that channel at top speed, before anyone started having second thoughts about letting me go. In less than thirty seconds I hit top speed and kept going down the block, rounding the corner before slowing and looking back. I was relieved to see that no one was following me and that there were far fewer people on the side street ahead of me.

  I slowed to a stop, taking a deep breath and offering a prayer of thanksgiving that I’d managed to remain in one piece thus far.

  Now to get down to business.

  I regretted not having a device with GPS access since a good map would have made finding Huntington’s lair a snap. But I knew I was just about at the house and obviously in the right neighborhood. I started down the street, looking upward toward the rooftops of the moth-eaten, two-story shops and homes around me. Would I find what I was looking for?

  Three minutes later, I spotted what I’d been searching for. An ancient dish antenna half hidden behind wicked-looking ribbon wire, in turn attached to a high voltage line and emblazoned with warning decals so no one would be tempted to try to steal it.

  If I’d been Huntington, that dish would be just the type of antique technology I’d be using to hide my home base. The equipment was so old, it was retro. Few people know how to modify such a system so it can tap into the various game nets. That meant it would be ignored by most government agencies and anti-piracy groups. It was the perfect system if you didn’t want to attract attention.

  I was certain I’d hit pay dirt.

  Chapter 20

  Father Emanuel Girodet

  I hung my vestment shawl on its hook, waiting an extra moment to be sure the Martian gravity had really secured it, and then exchanged my communion robes for a course everyday cloak.

  For perhaps the thousandth time in the last month, I pondered why I stood (perhaps bounced would be a better term) on Mars. And what could have possessed the church fathers to think it necessary to send a priest, and an ex-Jet head at that (prone to flashbacks) to the barren planet that was little more than red dust and rocks.

  “Lord, help me not to ask so many questions,” I muttered, closing the tiny closet. I shook my head, realizing that I’d asked for what amounted to a miracle. Perhaps an impossible miracle, given my impatience with both God and man. I was beginning to think my sister-in-law was right; maybe I should have become a professional wrestler instead of going into the ministry.

  I chuckled at the thought of putting a heavyweight sinner into a hammerlock — for the Virgin Mother, of course.

  No, I belonged in the ministry. Of that I was sure, even if I had my doubts about my need to be on Mars.

  But it did seem to me that the Vatican might have spent the meager amounts still in its coffers more wisely, putting its priests somewhere other than outposts like this one. Little by little the church had imploded following the Fifth Crusade that left the Middle East in ruins. The Holy fathers had sold vast libraries, auctioned Church land, and had dismantled cathedrals that had been like the jewels in the crown of the Savior. All in an attempt to continue operation and to supply missionaries not just around Earth’s globe, but to its orbiting cities and, as of late, to the Moon and Mars.

  It seemed to me the strategy had been one long, losing proposition. Of course you are simply a lowly priest with no concept of what the Holy Father is doing from his meager apartments in Rome.

  One thing I did know: The Fifth Crusade and the atrocities on both the Islamic and Christian sides, had brought the renewed blight of humanism and skepticism that had spread like cancer in the decades after. The Benedictines and then the Jesuits had quickly fallen to the wayside and been disbanded; Protestantism had all but died. And following the discover that mankind had most likely migrated from the Moon to Earth before the dawn of history…

  Well, that discovery was very nearly the last nail in the Church’s coffin.

  There was no doubt that the Church was in bad shape. Any other institution would be dead. Yet it just kept clinging to life, refusing to go gracefully, a marvel of tenacity.

  Much as I hated to admit it, sometimes the thought that the graves on the lunar surface were older than any on Earth was enough to make even my own faith waver. Yet I continued my mission, praying that hope would take over when my faith stumbled. I continued on because without the hope offered by my Lord, there was no reason to continue with this life.

  So my hope was buttressed on both desperation and blind obedience. As blind as I could manage, anyway. Part of that meant obeying those Church orders that brought me to the barren surface of a planet that was worse than anything the Earth had to offer.

  I crossed over to the small door of the changing room and entered the tiny chapel that I shepherded, my eyes locking onto the crucifix hanging on the wall. What a fool I am for thinking such thoughts. “I’m far better off than you, am I not?” I asked. I shook my head.

  Here I was griping about being sent to Mars to a God that gave his very life on the tree of suffering. I closed my eyes. “Grant me more humbleness and a mind less inclined toward grumbling,” I whispered.

  There, I thought, opening my eyes. Now I’ve requested two miracles in as many minutes.

  Ah, the altar. Electric candles. An altar with electric candles — that would always seem strange to me. Yet it made sense here where there was no oxygen to waste. Each breath of air on Mars was something a human being should be thankful for and not to be burned wastefully feeding candle flames.

  Each breath was a gift.

  Lord, help me to be more thankful.

  “Father,” a voice called from the darkness at the back of the chapel.

  I startled at the sound, my Earth-trained muscles propelling me nearly a foot into the air. I cleared my throat, hoping I didn’t present too absurd a picture as I floated back toward the floor, falling for what seemed a very undignified eternity. “Yes, my child,” I finally managed as my toes tou
ched the floor.

  The thin figure strolled down the center aisle toward the light of the altar where I stood, stopping just inside the shadows.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  “Father, we need to talk. I…”

  “I’m here to listen — and to pray with those who are so inclined.”

  She stepped out of the shadows. Despite the unisex toga, the slight frame and high-pitched voice betrayed her sex. I judged her to be eighteen or nineteen at the most, perhaps younger. Undoubtedly one of the many who had come to Mars thinking they’d strike it rich with the new gold and water deposits found in the Louis IV valleys, and instead discovering that the corporations were making all the rich finds and that drugs were cheap and readily available on the red planet, especially to a girl willing to sell her body.

  “Let’s step over to the confessional,” I gently suggested, motioning toward the tiny booth that sat in the corner.

  “Father, if you’d quit flapping your gums, this would be easier for both of us.”

  I raised an eyebrow, for a moment thinking I was having a flashback hallucination from my Jet use. I turned to look back toward the youth who seemed real enough. As was the nail gun she had pointed at me.

  “I need all the money from the offering plate,” she said evenly. “And the gold candle holders.”

  I lifted my hands into the air. “The offering you can have, such as it is. The gold candlesticks are — I’m afraid — just metallic-coated plastic molded into the top of the table. But you’re welcome to them, too, if I can get them free of their bolts.”

  “Don’t try to get smart with me, priest.” She took a step closer, shoving the nozzle of the nail gun into my stomach. “I can tell by looking that those are solid gold.”

  “An experienced jeweler, are you?”

  “How about a couple of ten pennies in your gut, smart guy. Maybe you’d like to —”

  I barely moved, a practiced twist of my wrist and a minor arm bend almost too rapid to detect. All the young woman could have perceived was a rustling of my black robe.

  But suddenly the nail gun was in my hand and its previous owner lay sprawled across the first pew, struggling to sit and nursing a growing headache from her skull slamming against a plastic bench at a higher than comfortable speed.

  The gun vanishing under my robe; I estimated I might get twenty francs for the device, a nice addition to the week’s offerings. I stepped toward the girl who cowered at my approach. “Sorry to be so rough, young lady. But the Church doesn’t have money to burn on needless medical bills these days.”

  “How’d you —”

  “Shut up. My turn to speak. Since I have a forgiving spirit, I’m giving you a second chance. You can either work for me at a fair wage — there’s a lot of repair work that needs to be done on this building; my predecessor let the place go to seed, I’m afraid.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or,” I continued before my captive audience could protest, “I’ll call the cops and turn you in. I understand there’s plenty of room yet on our orbiting prison galley these days. Choice’s yours. But you’d best think it over carefully because I’m a tough boss. If you don’t want to work or get ahead, then you’d better choose jail because I won’t cut you any slack. Now which will it be?”

  Ralph Crocker

  I wanted to know the lay of the land, so I circled Huntington’s hideout like Joshua circling Jericho. I rounded it three times, trying to avoid appearing too conspicuous and wondering what kind of security Huntington might have. Since he had lots of cash and had worked in the electronics industry, it seemed likely the two-story house would be well protected.

  On the first pass I noted the fine wires in the window glass behind the bars; old-fashioned but highly effective burglar alarms used the embedded wire or foil system. That meant the windows and most likely the doors were unreliable avenues of access.

  On the second trip round, I noticed the fake camera that appeared to watch the street, designed to get amateur burglars sidetracked so they wouldn’t see the real danger presented by the pinhole cameras located above the doorways.

  On the third pass I knocked a would-be burglar out. He was now lying unconscious under the window he was about to break, and would have tripped the alarm system had I let him continue. I probably saved his life as well since he’d failed to notice the lethinject grid protecting the doors and windows to the house. Lethal injectors are overkill, perhaps, but no doubt useful in a neighborhood where police response time was four or five decades.

  Since the doors and windows were obviously well protected, I had decided to take a less direct approach and go in through a wall.

  And here’s the spot, I thought, noting an especially rusty plate in the steel armor of the house. The adhesive holding the plate had come loose, exposing a small edge that would permit me to pry it away from the wall.

  In the shadows of the alley, I checked once more for unwanted obs or a peephole camera I might have missed, but saw nothing. Time to go to work.

  I started prying and scraping away adhesive under the plate. Once the opening was started, I inserted the government-issue pistol into the crack and used the weapon like a pry bar. The plate popped off, clanging on the stained cement pavement. With great relief I discovered the building material below the armor was standard plastic construction, rather than concrete or brick facing.

  After an hour’s work with a cheap — and growingly dull — pocketknife, I had carved out a hole big enough to wiggle through. I carefully started probing inside to be sure there were no tell-tale wires or strings that might be connected to a booby trap.

  Detecting none, I checked to be sure there were no pedestrians around to see me and then squirmed through the hole into the blackened interior of the musty old house.

  The inside was a surprise.

  I’d expected some modern furniture, some artwork, something reflecting the money that Huntington had. Instead it was decorated in Early American Hotel 69, dimly lit by a bare bulb in the hallway beyond the front room. A thread-worn couch and chairs were clustered around an ancient digital TV. The carpet was so matted with dust that as I crept across the room I could see my tracks in the dim light.

  Had I broken into the wrong place?

  No, that was silly.

  This had to be Huntington’s hideout.

  But a clever trap, perhaps.?

  Distinct possibility.

  For a moment I stood motionless, contemplating the idea of leaving. I decided since I’d come all this way, it would be crazy not to check the place out, and die of curiosity later, wondering if it was the right house and whether or not Huntington was there.

  There was always the possibility that in doing the checking I might die of curiosity in the here and now if I got snared in a trap.

  I tip-toed across the living room, alert for burglar alarm equipment, gritting my teeth because the ancient wooden flooring seemed to groan with every other step, making enough creaking that it seemed it might be heard upstairs if not on the street.

  Passing the wooden stairway leading to the second floor, I opted to fully inspect the downstairs, heading through an archway leading to a hall where another tungsten bulb, dampened by a coat of dust, valiantly glowed in the ceiling. At one end of the hall was the front door, and the dust was disturbed here showing that someone had recently been in and out several times. Only not in a wheel chair; these were footprints.

  Raising a question: Did Huntington have a helper?

  Or was Huntington really able to walk, perhaps using the wheelchair as a convenient bit of misdirection?

  I knew if I’d been in his shoes, and had all his money, I would have thrown everyone off by appearing to be restricted to a motorized cart while really being able to walk, climb, or run when nobody expected me to. Of course just because I’d do it that way didn’t mean Huntington would.

  I passed a shuttered window. The small diodes on the window frame showed that the burglar alarm was
active; and the window was armed with autogun barrels pointed toward the outside, ready to give any intruder a face full of buckshot. Luckily I’d had the good sense to dig through the side of the house.

  My stomach growled loudly, reminding me I hadn’t eaten for over twenty-four hours now — longer if I didn’t count the possibly make-believe meal with Alice on the Mile-High Building. I realized that somewhere in this house there might be a kitchen with food. The thought made my mouth water as I made my way down the corridor, figuring the kitchen must be somewhere on the ground floor.

  Pay dirt. I went to the refrigerator, opened it, and discovered a jar full of mold that — according to the label — had been beets in a previous life. Otherwise the Frigidaire was empty. Ditto for the cabinets.

  No one lives here. Yet, it was still possible that Huntington employed the house for his gaming, as suggested by the computer tracking that led to this address. So I should continue my search of the house.

  I was halfway back down the hall when I heard the floor creak in the living room. Then I heard whispers, so faint I couldn’t quite make out what was being said.

  I drew my gun, put my back to the wall, and listened.

  “Come on hot boy,” someone whispered. “Nobody’s here. Quit being a xonk and get in.”

  I let out my breath and shook my head. Great, I thought. A couple of punks have discovered the opening I made in the side of the house. It seemed like no one had any pride anymore. Couldn’t they hit another place on their own?

  Now I’d have to work around them.

  I quietly replaced the heavy duty government armament under my armor and withdrew the ancient Jennings .22 auto I’d “borrowed” from the street punks earlier that evening. I only wanted to scare the two of them, not plaster the walls with their carcasses.

  So I waited, ready to run them off if they headed my way. But they didn’t come into the hall, instead opting to climb the stairway to what I assumed would be bedrooms, which made professional sense since such rooms are generally where people keep their cash and jewelry.