Lesser Gods

by Duncan Long

“Perfect.”

  “I’ll bring them to you shortly.” The bot rolled out the door that closed behind it.

  I hit the recessed release studs on the floor and a small table and chair hissed up. Then I examined the food dispenser. It had been nearly thirty-six hours since I’d last eaten and I was famished. If I was going to meet Huntington and risk death again, at least I wanted to do it on a full stomach.

  I’d just finished eating when the door chimed. Probably the bot with my Doze-Less tablets. I rose and opened the door.

  The muzzles of three government-issued pistols pointed at my nose.

  Before I could speak, the tallest of the three agents snarled, “So long, sucker” and jerked the trigger of his gun.

  Chapter 25

  Alice Liddell

  Dear Diary:

  This time I’m really worried about Ralph. I think maybe he’s dead. I know I’ve thought this before, and he’s turned up again like a bad penny (in the bad boy sort of way). But this time I felt… something. Like something really max-terrible had happened to him.

  I’m scared, too. Sometimes when I sleep the OEK appears in my dreams. In all sorts of forms from bats to hairy spiders to dirty old men. So far I’ve been able to fight him and win, or escape and hide — or at least I’ve dreamed I have. I’m not sure where dreams and games and real life leave off these days. They’re all sort of running together like a watercolor painting left out in the rain.

  Maybe mom is right and the Jet really did scramble my brain.

  I hope Ralph is all right. I would never let him know it, but I have a major crush on him these days.

  Ralph Crocker

  I found myself sitting astride a horse, guiding it across a shallow, muddy river. We reached the opposite bank where I kicked my mount’s flanks, spurring him up the steep mud bank and through the brush growing along the river. Two armed men rode alongside me. We slowed to a stop at an outcrop of limestone where a lone cottonwood held court, surrounded by willow trees, its kingdom rooted in the stony shelf along the riverbank.

  My companions and I gazed across the clearing of the valley. “There’s one of them,” the sheriff said with a tobacco-gruff voice, pointing to a nearby horse with a pale man lying in a carpet of yellow cottonwood leaves at the animal’s feet. Victim of a lucky shot from the posse pursuing him from town, the outlaw’s shirt was stained with dry blood and the dark red hole in his shoulder wetly reflected the morning sunlight.

  “Don’t think you’ll need that gun,” the sheriff told the deputy to my left. “Much blood as he’s lost, he’s dead. Or good as.” The lawman turned and spit tobacco as if punctuating his remark.

  I spurred my horse past the dead man and wove a path through the last of the brush and trees, stopping at the boundary where the thick growth ended and the tall grass dominated. Taking care to remain hidden behind the scrub, I extracted my binoculars from the saddlebag and studied the terrain beyond.

  Looking through the lens across the valley where an eroded, rocky outcropping of steep purplish hills began, I spotted the two horses and their riders. We’d been tracking the murderous bank robbers for days. They’d left eight townspeople dead following a botched holdup.

  The sheriff pulled up alongside me and I handed him my field glasses. “On that hill. Look about half way up. To the left of the dead tree.”

  The sheriff had a little trouble finding the tree with the binoculars but finally focused on the area I’d directed him toward. “Well I’ll be… There they are, sure ‘nough. Think we can catch ‘em before they reach the top?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Can you hit ‘em with that rifle of yours?”

  I studied the distance a moment, unconsciously stroking the sheath encasing my Sharp’s rifle as I considered the feat. “Might.”

  The sheriff studied me for a moment, his eyebrow cocked upward. “That’s… what? Least a mile o’er there.”

  “Little shy of a mile, I recon. But I might be able to hit them as slowly as they’re moving up that hill.”

  “Well, it’s our only chance of stopping ‘em,” the lawman said. “Once they’re over the ridge, they’re good as gone with the border just a few miles beyond. I’d sure like to see them sons of bitches dead.” He spat again.

  I drew the rifle from its saddle sheath, taking care not to disturb the sensitive scope on top of it. Then I dismounted. “Hang onto my horse,” I told the deputy, handing him the reins. “He’ll get spooked when I start shooting, so hold tight. Don’t want to have to walk back to town.” I turned to the sheriff. “Watch through the field glasses and let me know what you see after I fire. Dry as it is, the bullets will kick up some dust and you can help me adjust for windage.”

  I pulled a box of shells from my vest pocket as I sauntered over to a forked tree, the jingle of my spurs loud in the crisp morning air. I tore open the box of cartridges and emptied the five rounds into my pocket. After flipping the breechblock open, I chambered one of the brass .45-70 shells into it, then I carefully closed the breech, locked it, and pulled back the single-action hammer.

  “The lead one’s ‘bout half way up the hill,” the sheriff announced.

  “I’m aiming for the rear one.”

  “Not the lead?” the sheriff asked.

  “They’ll take longer to realize what’s happening if they don’t see what happened. Buy me a few extra shots before they wise up and high tail it ‘cross the ridge.” Resting my rifle on an old tree stump, I knelt and squinted through the long, brass-bodied telescope atop my rifle, carefully centering the crosshairs well above the hindmost rider, and then I adjusted the point of aim a little to the right since that was the direction the horse and rider climbed up the face of the steep hill. The air was still, so I made no adjustment for windage.

  I released the set trigger, held my breath as I steadied the rifle so the scope’s view swam only a little, and then, just as crosshairs aligned with the fleeing killer, I touched the hair trigger. The rifle jumped in my hands, shoving at my shoulder as I rolled back with the heavy recoil of the powerful cartridge.

  “Nothin’,” the sheriff said, disappointment in his voice.

  “Kick up any dust?” I asked, wondering if there was a crosswind between me and the bad guys. I flipped open the breach and extracted the hot brass, dropping it into the sand. I retrieved another shell, and chambered it.

  “No, wait!” the sheriff cried. “The rear rider’s hit. He’s off his horse… And he’s rollin’ down the hill.”

  “Takes time for the bullet to get there,” I explained as I cocked the hammer. I looked through the scope again. The rearmost rider was still tumbling down the hill, his companions turned in their saddles in an effort to determine what had happened since they were too far away to hear the report of my rifle.

  This time I aimed at the lead bandit, taking advantage of the confusion that left him a stationary target where he’d pulled his horse to a halt. I pulled the set trigger, acquired my point of aim, and squeezed the hair trigger. The rifle kicked again. I recovered and quickly went through the drill of reloading.

  “Miss!” the sheriff cried. “Kicked up the dirt about three feet to the left of the lead rider.”

  I had a harder target now as both of the remaining outlaws were racing for the top of the ridge, having seen the dust of the bullet and now realizing they were under fire. I took careful aim once more and fired.

  As I reloaded the sheriff announced. “Hit! But the last un’s nearly at the top of the ridge.”

  I raised the rifle and aimed, squeezing the set trigger as I acquired my target. This time I released the hammer without realizing it, the rifle thundering in my hands. I winced as the thrashing stock battered my now-tender shoulder and cheek.

  Nevertheless, I ignored the pain and quickly reloaded.

  “Got him!” the sheriff yelled. “By God, you got the last varmint. Good work. Mighty fine shootin’. Mighty fine.”

  I removed the shell from my rifle and lowered the h
ammer of the Sharps. “Better round up the bodies.”

  “We got ‘em,” the sheriff said. “You go on back to town and tell everyone we got the last of ‘em.”

  I slipped my rifle back into its leather sheath, took the horse’s reins from the deputy, and swung myself into the saddle. “Well, be seeing you then, Sheriff.”

  “See ya.” He spit once more. “Nice shootin’. Real nice.”

  I said nothing more, tipped the brim of my hat, and then spun my horse around and retraced our trail down the slope and into the muddy water. After crossing the river, I headed toward town at a full gallop.

  Moments later I was back in my hotel room in Antarctica. Three agents lay at my feet, each one with a huge hole blown through his body. Holes the size of a Sharp’s rifle bullet.

  What the hell was going on?

  How could my jet flashbacks, or whatever they were, influence reality? It seemed madly impossible.

  Yet, the three bodies at my feet argued otherwise.

  Moments after I had hidden the bodies behind the couch, a bot appeared at the door, delivering the Doze-Less tablets I had ordered. I took two, then considered things a moment, and took two more. I knew I couldn’t go without sleep for too much longer without starting to hallucinate so I would need to work fast.

  I took the postage stamp sized computer from my pocket, laid it on the coffee table I’d released from the floor, and waited for the keyboard to unfold from the computer and the gas screen to deploy. Once the PC was booted, I told it to connect into the hotel’s wireless, instructing my computer where to search.

  “All right, Huntington,” I whispered, “let’s see where you are,” My computer checked the local IP address I’d found Huntington’s Topeka dish reporting to, then compared that address against a backtrack directory that would, I hope, give me a physical address here in the Antarctic. Within a moment I had the information. I ordered my computer to back out of the directory I’d hacked into, hoping I was out before anyone detected the intrusion. Now the trick would be getting to the physical addresses since that wasn’t quite as simple as jumping into a car and going to the site.

  I cross indexed the physical address, McTavish 121-085, against a satellite map I pulled up from the net and crossed my fingers, hoping Huntington, with a whole continent to choose from, hadn’t gone hog wild and placed his hideout in the middle of the ice some place next to Superman’s hidden lair. Surely even with the monetary resources he had at his disposal, he’d err on the side of convenience, locating his hideaway close to the only major settlement on the continent.

  The page came up, starting along with ads.

  Planning a Trip to Antarctica?

  Fly the Friendly Skies of Yeltsin Airlines.

  No frills, just the thrills and chills.

  The ad over, the search engine got down to business:

  The Solar Atlas Search Page.

  Search Results of McTavish 121-085:

  Earth: Longitude: 70.52°, Latitude: 82.23°

  For New Search, Click Here.

  For Infrared Map, Click Here.

  For Hot Naked Bodies, Click Here.

  I ignored the bouncing boobs of the last link — things were that serious — and copied the coordinates to a hard print out, realizing that I was in luck with his address.

  According to the map, Huntington’s retreat was just a short distance from my hotel. But I’d still need to organize a mini-expedition to visit him, and, realizing such a junket wouldn’t come cheap, I felt a sharp pain in my pocketbook.

  Chapter 26

  Ralph Crocker

  It took four hours and some e-cash under the table to get a tourist excursion tractor diverted for my impromptu trip. The expedition arranged, twenty minutes later I found myself plodding through the snow in the hard-shelled explorer suit they’d issued to me. The heater in the outfit kept me a few degrees above hypothermia and almost succeeded in keeping the inside of my fishbowl helmet from fogging up.

  Almost.

  I found I had to employ my nose as a windshield wiper on the inside of the visor from time to time to see out.

  “This is when most people ask themselves, ‘Why didn’t I visit Hawaii?’,” my guide, Don Smeel observed. He’d already got under my skin and I had to wonder why there weren’t more ax murders committed in Antarctica.

  “Wanted to surprise an old friend,” I answered over my helmet’s radio. A heavy gust of wind threatened to knock me over and sent a shower of ice rattling off my visor.

  “We’re almost to the shed,” Smeel told me needlessly as we trudged toward the 20 meters wide geodesic dome. In minutes we were through the air lock and standing in a junk-filled and claustrophobic space. Smeel popped off his helmet, his face beaming with his pride of ownership. “Cozy, ain’t it?”

  I murmured an indistinct answer.

  “This way,” Smeel said, beckoning toward a snow tractor maintained in the bailing wire and spit tradition. We climbed in and sealed the doors. Smeel turned the engine over. “So what’s your friend doing way out here?”

  “He likes his privacy, I guess.”

  “Hey, you’re not a reporter, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Tax collector?”

  “Smeel, if I paid you another hundred, do you suppose you could keep from asking questions?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.” The driver backed his snow tractor out of the shed.

  The wind battered and shook and howled as we traveled. But human speech remained blissfully absent for the rest of the journey. I suppose some would think vast stretches of snow and ice and blue sky beautiful, but I found myself longing for my grimy streets of New Kansas. I wondered if I could ever walk the dangerous avenues of Topeka again.

  “Almost there,” Smeel announced, breaking my reverie. “Straight ahead, about a hundred yards.”

  “Don’t get too close — I want to surprise him.”

  “You won’t have any problem surprising him. With this wind, the engine noise will be in Argentina long before he could hear it. If we stop just ten meters away he won’t know you’re on top of him. Hey, you’re not going to —”

  I glared at Smeel.

  “Sorry. Forgot our deal. I’m stopping here. Be sure to leave your suit’s radio on so I can call you if we need to bug out in a hurry. Looks like there’s a storm coming in. May need to leave before long.

  “You got it.”

  Smeel slowed the tractor, taking its tracks off line so it rolled to a stop. He kept the engine running so it would continue to generate heat. “Keep your eye on the red flag so you don’t wander off the trail.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be back in about ten minutes.” I popped two more Doze-Less tablets and then screwed my helmet on.

  I fought the wind to open the side door on the tractor, and then stepped onto the tractor tread where I stood for a moment, sighting the tiny red flag flapping in the wind before I leaped down onto the snow. Everything was a hazy white, due to the blowing snow. I realized how easy it would be to get lost if I didn’t keep my eye on the reference point provided by the flag.

  After two minutes of heavy labor overcoming the stiff joins of my suit and the buffeting of the wind, I was at Huntington’s front door. As before, the place was wired and — I suspected — booby trapped. So I employed the same tactic, going through the wall. This time the job was easy. A few kicks to the plastic foam of the dome’s exterior and I had my own private entrance.

  I eased myself through the opening, dropping down onto the floor of the half-buried dome forming Huntington’s lair.

  I wished I had some sort of weapon.

  A nearby metal vase lying on an end table near the door was all I could see. I picked it up, hoping it would suffice.

  Five minutes later I had avoided the traps Huntington had laid, only to discover another computer relay system. While my trip to the Antarctic had not been a wild goose chase — I now had a lead that took me one step closer to Huntington — I still felt like
weeping since I had hoped to confront my tormentor now.

  Instead I hacked into the relay computer and retrieved the next IP address he was using.

  I had just finished when Smeel’s voice crackled over the radio set in my helmet. “Better get back to the tractor. Storm’s comin’ in.”

  “Headed out now,” I said.

  Despite my best of intentions and the advertiser’s promise that Doze-Less could keep a guy wide awake for days, I fell asleep during the storm that overtook us. Smeel didn’t wake me since he was busy fighting the controls of the tractor, bucking the wind to keep aligned on the homing beacon back to his home base near the hotel.

  My nap was unlike anything I’d experienced before, my mind flying like a bird free of its cage, twittering from place to place. Perhaps much of what I experienced was purely an illusion brought on by lack of sleep. And yet when I awoke, the experience remained extremely vivid, like that super-reality I experienced when hitting a well-written SupeR-G with maximum jet coursing through my veins.

  As I slept, I twisted through dimensions my mind couldn’t quite grasp but somehow could use. Over and around, I made an impossible corner and settled into a darkened room where an old man sat in a wheel chair.

  “Who’s there?” his voice called. The figure grabbed the wheels of his chair and spun himself around to face me, his single eye blazing with anger. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same question,” I replied. “It’s my dream, after all.”

  The man slowly morphed, melting into a puddle of slime that oozed onto the floor and flowed toward me.

  “If I had a mop I’d take care of this little problem of yours,” I said with a grin.

  I took a step back to avoid soiling my shoes. The material congealed and then reformed itself, growing into a huge python unlike anything Mother Nature had ever imagined, with rattles on its tail and fangs dripping venom as it rose to strike at me.