The Risen Gods

by Frank Kennedy

  The inner rosette of weight-bearing supports melted away, caught in the storm’s heart. The outer girders resisted, their job to hold up this monstrosity for an eternity. But James heard the cracking, felt the buckling. Eternity had an expiration date.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw the murky yellow reflections of a western sun shining through the distant opening. Scattered fires and explosions pockmarked the sudden expanse. Sections of the base of what used to be Level 8 collapsed, creating new fires and outbreaks. The new ceiling – once the roof of Level 16 – glowed as orange streaks expanded. It was cracking and would fall in minutes.

  He floated with Rayna, their gravity-modifier boots lowering them at a gentle pace. They wrecked their bodysuits, the fabric torn and in places burnt. They tapped off their helmets, which were blackened and bent. James was exhausted, and Rayna appeared spent. A red glow appeared in the corners of her eyes, a reflection of his own.

  He kissed her.

  “You’re beautiful,” he told her. “How does it feel to be born?”

  “Is very hard work. We are good now? All the others … they are behind us?”

  “Yes. They deserved this. They will never try to hurt us again. I promise.” The kiss was stronger this time. “How many children should we have?”

  Rayna thought for a moment. “Will they be gods like us?”

  “Even better.”

  James intended to keep his promise. The work of making a new family would begin today.

  63

  Four months later

  Pacific Riviera

  Pynn Outpost

  M ICHAEL COOPER BROUGHT THE UPLIFT to its softest landing yet. He was getting the hang of it. One more week until he achieved full licensure in short-range navigation. More important, he’d open a revenue stream. The coastal outposts were a growth industry for Solomons. The data was clear: Chancellors were fleeing the cities, looking for refuge with distance between property lines.

  “Take advantage,” Rikard told him instream. “You’re building a future. We’ll need people everywhere after the war dies down.”

  Rikard admitted to being jealous. He and Matthias wanted a place on the west coast after losing everything in New Stockholm, but those dreams had to wait. Matthias’s business took a hit after the disaster; Chancellors weren’t as interested in his bio-art. Rikard struggled when his name was linked to Ophelia Tomelin.

  “Once the opportunities pick up,” Rikard told him, “maybe I’ll drop in, and we’ll talk about a partnership.”

  Rikard always ended their streams with the sideways thumb. He never told Michael every detail about the underground movement, but he revealed enough. Four days earlier, Michael matched Rikard’s signal for the first time. Rikard said he was pleased.

  “I have a feeling, Michael. You will be one of our best.”

  Michael felt it, too. The long night far behind, Michael found days of peace, purpose, and – to his amazement – acceptance. Still, he appreciated having the flash pistol on his side pouch.

  Outside the uplift, he smelled the ocean. It came in on a strong breeze. Gulls cackled. A storm moved onshore two kilometers north.

  He almost forgot to log his distance, so Michael tapped his amp and threw open a holocube log. He spoke into it.

  “Standard day: 29. Tally: 14.77 kilometers, 5 rotations. Stack data to licensure bureau.”

  When the data vanished into a vortex, he threw away the cube and tapped off his amp. He was glad to be home.

  The aroma coming from the kitchen took him back to another world. The spices, the shrimp, the fish. Gumbo? In the Collectorate?

  He found her stirring a pot while the recipe drifted overhead. He came home to a similar tableau every evening, a love she found during her recuperation. When she saw him, Samantha froze the recipe holocube and set her stirring spoon aside.

  “You change the lighting in here or something?” He asked.

  “No, but you ask every day.”

  “Well, seems you’re more beautiful every time I come home. How about I slide on over and get some loving?”

  They wrapped tight and disappeared into the usual pre-meal of lips, tongue, and the desire to put dinner on the backburner in favor of a jaunt in bed. They only had a month’s experience since Samantha received medical clearance for strenuous physical activity. Each day they found new strategies and new positions.

  Samantha proposed more adventurous techniques, insisting her body could handle them, but Michael recalled how fragile she was those first weeks. How the assassin’s laser pulse sliced her spinal cord and ripped open her stomach. How, after Chancellor technology rebuilt her and set her to walking in two weeks, he feared a fatal setback at a moment’s notice. How they argued on the thirtieth day of her recovery until she laid down an ultimatum: Move forward or out.

  “She’s a hell of a woman,” he told Rikard when asked how Samantha was recuperating. “She’s growing into the Chancellor these lunatics need. They’re gonna be coming to her for lessons one day. You watch. She’ll show ’em what’s for.”

  He told her about Rikard’s movement. She had no problem with it, even said the time for change was coming.

  They kissed to the bouquet of gumbo until a timer went off.

  “Hold the thought,” she said, reaching behind the pot.

  This was ancient-world cooking in Chancellor terms, but Samantha wanted it no other way. Most Chancellors relied on Solomons and automation to make their meals.

  “Your beard is filling out nice,” she told him.

  He rubbed along the jaw line. “Yeah, I like it. Then again, it was your idea. So, how did things go with the presidium today?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Better than the first meeting. I tell you, sweetie, those people are in a state. They’re looking over their shoulders thinking other presidiums are moving against us. They want me to sprout fresh ideas because I’m their little miracle gal.”

  “Look, those jerks probably been carrying on the same way for generations. They can’t get out of their own damn box. I can’t blame them. There’s two or three assassinations every week. The shit going on with some of them families is nasty. I heard a rumor today about a hit job and reprisal on an Ark Carrier.”

  She stirred the gumbo. “I heard it, too. The Catalan system. If this spreads through the carriers, where will it end?”

  “Yep. They’ll eat each other alive, and the future won’t matter.”

  “I think it will come down to the Guard. Eventually, they’ll make a move. Some already want soldiers in the cities. There hasn’t been a combat deployment on Earth for eight hundred years.”

  Michael tapped into his first-Earth education.

  “I recall a time when a bunch of redcoats walked the streets, and things didn’t go so hot for them. But I think we’ll be OK this time. The new weapons law seems to be working out. Still can’t believe they gave access to Solomons.” He tugged at his side-arm.

  She sighed. “Nearabout every Solomon is somebody’s part-time bodyguard. Chancellors who didn’t serve in the UG want others to kill for them, and there aren’t enough mercs to go around.”

  “The Chancellors are fools. When this civil war ends, they’re gonna revoke the weapons law. They’re gonna want these back. Not happening.”

  She focused on the gumbo. “Is that what Rikard says?”

  “Him, me, others. Chancellors, too. You’ve heard it.”

  “Yes, Michael, I’ve heard it.” Her tone deepened. Whenever she transitioned from ‘sweetie’ to ‘Michael,’ the conversation headed south. “Revolution is not a given. If the Solomons are smart, they’ll use leverage to strike a compromise. I think the Chancellory would allow property ownership to avoid all-out war.”

  “Maybe. But can you see these people giving away their domination of Earth without a blood fight?”

  “Michael, please. Just stop. OK? You’re passionate, but … everything was so beautiful a few minutes ago. Every time we talk about these issues …”
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  He hugged her. “I’m sorry, Sam. I know how to bring down a room. Let’s just eat dinner and have a quiet evening.”

  She thanked him with a kiss, but he felt her tension as she pulled away. He assumed her meeting with the Americus Presidium did not go well. This was only her second attendance. He didn’t ask about the agenda the first time, and he wasn’t now. Solomon knowledge of presidium business was illegal under the Solomon Economic and Ethics Treaty. They decided weeks ago to protect themselves by not discussing details – the only part of their lives off the table.

  Instead, Michael backed off and watched her find peace as she perfected her gumbo. He’d never seen her this beautiful. Taller by an inch, hair close-cropped for presidium appearances, a flowered sari in gold and lavender. A woman of sixteen. Assured, confident. Everything her parents wanted shy of a peacekeeper rank.

  Dinner on the oceanfront balcony was perfect. The gumbo wasn’t what he remembered from trips to Louisiana, but it was close enough. She chose the perfect wine. Then again, she bought only the best wines. She burned through credits faster than he thought wise. When she bought out the other owner of their property share plus the pieces of land on either side, he worried – until she showed him the financials. She could spend this way for decades.

  Sitting next to her watching the final hour of the sun never got old. They finished with mangoes and pineapples sautéed in jubriska, an ancient liquor with a touch of mint and a sniff of bourbon.

  He toasted her. “I’ll say this much. Anybody back in Alabama want some good damn food? Just cross the fold, baby.”

  “Must be something in the water. Right?”

  “Or the cook.”

  They finished their wine and settled back as the sun dipped close to the horizon. They took it in for a few minutes. Michael waited until he saw just the right measure of peace in her features.

  “So, um, what do you say we head in for some real dessert?”

  She spit out a laugh. “You haven’t tried that line in two weeks.”

  “What can I say? They’re on rotation.”

  She sat up and gave him a long, excited grin. He thought she would nod. Instead, she said the thing he most dreaded.

  “No.”

  Her grin did not diminish. Michael saw this look before.

  She was bracing him for unpleasant news.

  “What? Something else happen with the presidium?”

  “No. Has nothing to do with them. But something else did happen today. I waited until now because I didn’t want to ruin dinner. It’s always perfect. Just the two of us out here.”

  He sensed the good vibes running aground. “Tell me.”

  “A file was transmitted into my personal stream stack. My encrypted administrative level. At first, I wanted to delete it, but I can’t keep something like this from you.”

  He heard the crack in her tone. This was bad.

  “Who sent it?”

  She tapped her amp, fingered directories in her cube, and threw it out in front of them. The sunset disrupted the image, so Michael swiped behind to fill the background. He didn’t have to read far to know what he was seeing:

  I used to play in the river when I was little. I swam naked because nobody was around. I liked peanut butter and jelly. Skippy was my favorite brand. I wanted to draw comic books for a living.

  When I was twelve, I started smoking. My best friend and I walked the long way home from school and shared a cigarette at our hideout.

  We decided to become world-class burglars. We weren’t very good at it, but we stole our first car when we were fourteen.

  It was fun, and nobody got hurt.

  We knew our hometown could never contain us. But we weren’t stupid, so we planned to wait until graduation, then we’d be off. Where? Who knew? We just wanted to have fun and ignore as many rules as we could.

  Maybe it was all a dream. Maybe I was never that boy. Maybe I will stop killing people someday. Maybe they will figure out how to kill me before the dark drowns them all.

  The message continued, but Michael trembled. Samantha slid her chair close and grabbed his hand.

  “Fuck,” he whispered. “How can this be, Sam?”

  “It’s him, sweetie. Look at the last part. Remember what he told us after Seneca? About wanting to kill again? Maybe I will stop killing people someday.”

  “No. Not now. Not after four months. After everything he did?”

  She kissed his cheek. “Keep reading.”

  I never believed in love at first sight. Why should I? My so-called parents might have loved each other, but they never showed it.

  At school, the kids called it love, but it was about sex. Every dude I knew just wanted to find a quick way under the covers. They shared stories every time they conquered somebody. And if they didn’t finish the job, they’d make up whatever came to mind.

  Mostly, they just wanted a trophy at their side. It’s not like they were going to marry these girls. Sometimes, they’d make a baby. Most girls thought I was a freak. Or dangerous. They talked to me, but usually so they could twist my words when they texted about me.

  Turns out, I was the most dangerous freak they’d ever know. Did I kill any of them before I crossed the fold? Those who lived will always be telling stories about me.

  You see, I know the truth: Love at first sight is real. It’s the most powerful obsession a man can have. Once it grabs hold, you got no choice but to play.

  I knew it the second I saw her. I knew I’d kill for her. There’s so much blood, but she leads me on. These things I hunger to do …

  Samantha leaned in. “That hunger was one of the last things he told us about. He must be with Rayna. The reports are true.”

  “So, this is about what? Blame it on Rayna? All those deaths?”

  “No, sweetie. He’s not making any excuses. Read the last part.”

  Michael’s day was ruined. Also, his week and the rest of the month. He wished Samantha had deleted the file.

  I was once told there were no evil men. The quote went something like this: “Nobody wakes up in the morning and decides over eggs and bacon to be evil that day.” One of my teachers even said the word ‘evil’ was a matter of perspective, and everyone – even insane people – thought their actions were in the right.

  If true, I can justify every thousand people I kill by pointing to the new and better future I am creating. I can say these people were obstacles on a necessary path. Then I can look forward in hopes of scaring away the next thousand in my way.

  Better yet, if I ever have a moment of weakness, all I have to do is listen as she whispers in my ear. My mind will calm, and my nerves will settle. I will not think of myself as a psychopath because when I look at her, I will know love.

  Can a psychopath love?

  He stared at the screen, his blood raging.

  “That’s how he ends? By saying he’s in love, so he can’t be nuts?” He threw a wine glass into the dunes. “If I could wrap my hands around his neck, I’d choke the life out of that bastard.”

  He pushed his chair away and made for the beach. By the time he reached the sand, which curled between his toes, Michael keeled over. He wanted to vomit dinner but produced dry heaves. He was empty but for the rage and the lingering nightmares.

  Michael had watched the vids over and over for weeks. The blast carving out nine levels of SkyTower. The debris raining down on Philadelphia Redux like firebombs. The desperate attempts to evacuate the tower and every city within 700 miles before its superstructure gave way. Its collapse six hours later, the segments breaking apart on a southeast trajectory into the Atlantic. The 300-foot tidal wave that wiped out most of New Stockholm in seconds. Rescue and recovery operations that took weeks; death lists still growing. The missing assumed lost in the nuclear explosion or drowned deep in the Atlantic.

  In the first days, as he prayed for Samantha to recover, Michael hoped for a misunderstanding. He hoped the rumor of a ship leaving the blast zone and disappearing f
rom UG system trackers was misplaced. Then came the survivors and their testimony. Michael hoped no more.

  At the surf’s edge, he stiffened when Samantha draped her arms around from behind and laid her head against him.

  “Why, Sam? You knew what it would do to me.”

  “Yes. And if you found out I kept it from you?”

  Her took her point. She had no choice.

  “How did he do it? He’s not even in the solar system anymore, if the reports are right.”

  “I’m not sure. At first, I assumed he had help. There aren’t many who can break into admin-level stacks. I assume Ophelia Tomelin. We thought his parents were lost, but who knows for sure? There were those so-called sightings at Ganymede Station and Xavier’s Garden. No, Michael. I thought about it all afternoon, then I remembered what he said to us on the way to Redux. ‘All I need is a keyword, and I know everything about it.’ What if he’s just reached a point where he doesn’t need help from anybody?”

  Michael’s heart fell. “He controls it all. Life. Death. The future. He is a god.” He pushed off Samantha and stepped away. “The Bible predicted Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Hell, he has nine riding shotgun. You know damn well he was behind the attack on that base holding the hybrids. All eight of them – poof! What d’ya bet Ophelia’s up there right now training those lunatics to follow their true master?”

  “Those are rumors. We don’t have any proof. The witnesses …”

  “You mean the ones left alive because they hid the best?”

  “Michael, we are still trying to gain more information about …”

  He cupped a hand over her mouth. “Enough already. Seriously. Stop minimizing anything that son of a bitch does. Sam, we can’t run from this anymore. That message? Think about it. The first part was meant for me. He started with the day we met. The second part was meant for you. He wanted to tell you he found somebody better. And the third? That was for us both. He is taunting us, Sam. He’s also reminding us.”

  His right hand twitched, as it often did when he allowed himself to think of the long night.