Praise for No Other Gods
"Non-stop action! An eternal champion battles his way across centuries, gradually learning to ask the question: why?"
- David Brin, best-selling author of Sundiver, the Uplift trilogy, Earth, and the Postman
“John is an amazing new talent to watch out for!”
- Matthew Mather, author of Atopia Chronicles and CyberStorm
“An Asimov tone with a Battle Royale feel and a Game of Thrones twist!”
- Simon Dawlat, CEO of AppGratis
“Battle descriptions are awesome and the action was pure adrenaline injected into my brain!”
- Alexandre Rocha Lima e Marcondes, Geeks with Blogs
“Pulled me into the story right away … it was actually hard for me to stop!”
- Andi Gutmans, creator of the PHP programming language
“A sci-fi page-turner with enough historical detail to ground it!”
- Meg Simpson, game designer
“Few writers are as much a joy to read … you won't stop!”
- Matt Marshall, editor-in-chief of VentureBeat
No Other Gods
sparkplug 9 publishers
“You shall have no other gods before Me.”
- Exodus 20:3
“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”
- Arthur C. Clarke
Chapters
1. Fight & feast (rinse & repeat)
2. We are your overlords
3. Never have so few
4. So long, suckers
5. Rock, paper, scissors
6. Not so deep sleep
7. Polar Solar
8. Cold comfort
9. Summer in Sumer
10. Perchance to dream
11. Three times is enemy action
12. Any sufficiently advanced technology
13. A man who can destroy a thing
14. Paradise found?
Fight & feast (rinse & repeat)
War in heaven is hell.
- Ron Hale-Evans
I smelled it through my skin.
Dust, sweat, and fear — the rank odor of fear. The reek soaked in around my nose, through my tongue, into my eyes. It was all I knew. Perhaps all I had ever known.
One foot in front of the other … step, step, and another step. This had been my existence forever, for eternity. Or at least since morning, which was almost the same thing. An enemy was out there, somewhere, and so was battle, somewhere, and eventually there would be blood, somewhere. Some of us would die. This was normal, expected.
Another day, another battle, another death.
The toiling backs in front of me were bowed and tired from twelve hours on the road, a long hot day at forced march speed. Formerly sky-blue tunics were soiled and sticky-wet with sweat caked with grime irrigated with yet more sweat. And the bright steel of our once-glorious imperial helms was dimmed with the chalky-fine dust kicked up by our metal-shod feet.
Step. Step. Step. Keep moving.
A surprise you know about shouldn’t be a surprise — in theory. But we’d crossed twenty leagues or more today, with dozens of hills. We’d crested fifty ridges, passed hundreds of copses of trees ... all good spots. We knew an ambush was coming, and we knew it was racing the spinning of this globe and the passage of its star through this atmosphere to come and meet us before dark. But we didn’t know when. And we didn’t know where.
The coming battle probably wouldn’t kill all of us, even though the suspense very nearly was. But now we would not have long to wait — the sun was setting. We had done this thousands of times before, and we’d do it thousands of times again. There would be battle: there was always battle before nightfall. We’d marched so long, so many days, and so so many years, and now dusk was near.
And then it happened, slowly and suddenly. The savage whisper of hundreds of arrows ripping through air filled our ears and jump-started our hearts as our distant foe unleashed pent-up wrath. Almost simultaneously a red-clad mass of men burst out from a stand of olive trees fifty yards ahead.
And it began.
Time slowed, as it always did, and my heartbeats counted the moments while my eyes freeze-framed the few remaining instants before blood and guts were spilled to dampen the dust underfoot.
Beat.
A charge of fighting men, glorious in confusion, boiling like a lake of lava. Metal glinting, standards waving, legs caught in mid-leap, arms raised, faces distorted in the savage rictus of raging battlelust.
Beat.
One erring arrow, rusted tip slicing air, feathers spinning slowly, regretfully as flesh eluded it, plunging into dust.
Beat.
The wooden shaft of a spear flexing mid-flight, undulating in slo-mo like a living thing, bright dangerous point impossibly missing all of my companions but one, pinning Darius’ blue cloak to the already damp red earth.
Beat.
A beautiful deadly dripping sword, flaring like a hot coal in the low evening sun. Sharp enough to separate soul and flesh, capable of slicing through my armor and neatly dropping my steaming guts to the ground.
Beat.
And then the world sped up, fast, as the charge was upon us. The crash and scream of men and beasts in heavy armor smashing into our front lines almost deafened me. Our forward ranks crumpled under the impact, men died quickly and in great pain, and suddenly I was the forward rank.
I dodged an already-blooded spearpoint thrust straight to my heart by a still-charging hoplite, twisted, spun, took off a leg with a single two-handed sweep, straightened and searched for my next adversary without favoring him with a second glance.
Stepping sideways just to be elsewhere, I narrowly avoided skewering. Then ran the off-balance attacker through his armor’s shoulder-joint straight to the heart, twisting as I withdrew to ensure maximum injury, catastrophic blood loss, and swift death. Turned immediately but just barely in time to see a massive shape lowering a boulder-sized shoulder to smash me down. Jumped slightly at the last minute and, twisting, turned the staggering impact into a leap and roll right over the mountain of man, ripping at the side of his neck with my dagger as the breath whooshed out of me and I flipped over his shoulder.
The battle devolved into a mass melee, small groups and pairs facing off. Already half the number of both sides littered the ground, and the screams of the dying filled the battlefield. Space opened up around me and I considered my next target, selecting a clump of red cloaks circling a comrade in a blue tunic.I attacked from behind.
There is no honor in battle, only winners and losers, living and dying. And if you think there is honor in death you haven’t seen a man die slowly with his guts run through by a stinking dirty battle-dulled sword.
I hobbled the first with a cut to the hamstring before they knew the odds had shifted. Leaving him as no further danger I immediately moved on to the second, slicing open his side before he could fully turn to engage me, then maintained my momentum and ran down the final opponent with the full weight of my body behind my shield, smashing into him to stun and to damage.
We hit the dirt together and rolled, stabbing and hitting in infinitesimal moments of stability, then separated, bounced to our feet, and threw ourselves at each other. As we came together our helmets clashed and I saw his face. With a smile of recognition and a quick mock salute with my sword I shoved Kin back, then followed with a feint to the feet while keeping my shield a little left of my body. Predictably, he skipped right and twisted in avoidance while also bringing down his sword on my now uncovered right side.
Only I stopped mid-stride, anticipating his move, and closed with him in a completion of my initial feint, sheathing my dagger in his throat. I grinned at him, waved goodbye, then checked behind,
acknowledged the sword wave of the man I had just saved, and surveyed the battle. It was all but over — red littered the battlefield — and some of it flowed from blue.
Score one for the good guys. Pretty much the same as the bad guys.
We came together. A few raised a cheer, most just slowly circled, fatigue setting in as we ran a mental tally: who made it, who died, who was squirming in agony and needed finishing, who was just leaking. Soon we were finished and gathered under a tree to the edge of the battlefield, collapsed to the ground.
I closed my eyes and remembered the day. Marching for hours watching the slow anonymous countryside slip by as sweat slowly dripped down my segmented armor. Eating dust. Cursing stones in sandals.
Ten hours of tedium followed by ten minutes of terror. Par for the course, I thought — just like any other day. War is hellish heaven, and we were living it every day.
I knew what would happen next and sank slowly to the ground in anticipation. I lay looking into the deep blue sky as the world wheeled and the last rays of the sun slipped below the horizon and the first timid stars peeked down, winking at us in amusement at some eternal cosmic joke, most certainly at our expense. Reviewed the fight in my mind and imagined the feast to come.
The darkness came swiftly and my heart slowed. My awareness shrunk from the stars above to my stars below. My name. My name is Geno. I am a warrior in the hall of the gods. There is no more.
Beat.
It’s always the moment that catches you. The second that outlasts eternity, then disappears forever with the next thump of your heart.
Beat.
Has it always been like this? The fighting, the killing, the dying? I almost somewhat remember something different. There must be more, I think.
Beat.
Mists coiled over the carpet of living and dead flesh as the last light died and the smoke took our souls. If there is more, I have no memory of it.
Beat.
I gave myself to the night and surrendered to the sleep.
Dead or alive, win or lose, it was always the same.
First there is cold. Then dark. As tubes disconnect and wires detach, you rise through layers of varisleep and approach wakeful consciousness. The oval, coffin-like inside of the pod becomes dimly visible as a comforting glow of pulsing status lights gently intrudes. Then abruptly, the lid seals break open, hissing with the release of arcane gases, the pod opens, and you are gently vomited you out to the warmth of the s.Leep room.
You rise, still half-drugged, snag some homeclothes from the locker at the foot of your pod, get dressed. And then you walk out of the barracks and into the hall of feasting.
I strode out into the hall, eager to see friends and acquaintances. There was Livia, and Jaca, and Helo. I winked, waved, greeted, but continuing to cycle through the hall, searching for one particular face. Turning, I found it.
I quickened my pace almost to a jog, and lowering my shoulder, butted right into Kin from the side, almost knocking him over. He bent, grabbed something from his boot, and corkscrewed unexpectedly up into me, sending me flying. I rolled, straightened from the floor, then froze as I felt a prick at my neck.
“Got you that time,” Kin laughed.
Slowly, hardly moving, I turned my head toward Kin at my side. Eyes burning, we didn’t move for what seemed like seconds that stretched like minutes. Then we couldn’t hold it anymore and, bursting into laughter, separated, punched each other on the shoulders, pantomimed horrific sneak attacks on each other, and generally got reacquainted.
“And you might have had me in the actual battle, too, if you didn’t keep pulling that same stupid move.”
“Oh, I’ll get you with it someday.”
I just laughed. Before I could explain to him for the twentieth time the necessity of changing favored moves from time to time to maintain personal fighting flexibility and ensure that regular opponents could not predict your movements, a clear cold gong sounded, just once.
It was the signal for the feast, and, hungry, we all obeyed instantly, finding our assigned places and sitting. Kin sat across from me; the rest of our cadre took their places around us. Livia, the one who connected us all, sat next to me. German and Jaca and Helo, fierce warriors, next to her. Lind and Tonia, calm and quiet, and Drago, loyal follower, on the right. And Jaca, plucky but not lucky, on my left.
“One of these days, just one, I’d like to be on your side,” said Kin. “In fact, I’d like our entire cadre to fight on the same team. Blue would be OK.”
Seconds after the hall quieted, mechanical servitors entered the hall, whirring on their wheels, bringing loaded dishes. We ate. Only after the first half hour of focused attention to refueling did we pop up for air, refill our glasses, and slow down, looking for conversation.
Livia started, smiling at me. “I saw you just about bite the dust in the first charge, G. Getting soft in your old age?”
Our cadre — and beyond our cadre now — had a pool when I would finally die in a battle. No-one could remember the last time I had even been wounded, and as far as I could remember, I had never — ever — been killed. This was getting to be a bit of a thing in all the cadres, which made me worry that someday, five or six of my opponents would throw strategy to the wolves and, regardless of the consequences to the battle, focus on putting me down. I had no idea how high the pool had gone now, and no desire. No sense tempting the gods.
One thing she did have right: I was the oldest in our cadre, maybe the entire army. At least 4 years older — essentially ancient.
“Not to worry, Livia. Still faster than you. Who else made it through this time?”
Livia had. Others grunted or raised a finger. Seven or eight of our ten had made it through the battle, though we had fought on both Red and Blue as assigned. Kin generally would have, except for meeting me. Jaca had been, of course, unlucky, caught in a shower of five or six arrows during the original Red ambush and wounded early in both thigh and shoulder. He had been easy prey during the battle.
We joked and laughed, same as soldiers for millennia, or so we had been told. The stress and fear of battle ebbed away, the good food and wine soaked in, and the comfort and ease of the company of our fellows washed away almost all remaining tension. Except … we knew how this feast would end. The same as all our other feasts.
Eyes not human had watched our battle. Minds greater than ours had seen, ranked, and judged. Decisions had been made, choices picked. And the consequences would soon be known.
It never happened before three hours, and never longer than six. Some joked and said this was the last treat of life: a good feast. Not so bad a way to go, they said. Others would prefer the end in battle be the true end. But human wishes mattered little before the will of the gods.
The floor of the hall shook, and deep, thudding sound staggered the tables and blasted our bodies. The air at the front of the hall shimmered and condensed, grew thick. Heavy mists fell to the floor, splashing in great heavy waves at our feet as the air quivered and a small silver liquid ball appeared, then grew rapidly to the full height of the hall. It was a turgid, rippling, mirrored sphere — something from an alien world reflecting shattered slices of ours, of us, as it flexed and quivered and stretched and grew.
Instantly the sphere became transparent, sound vanished in a sudden deafening silence, and we all bent our heads respectfully. It was time for Hermes.
He appeared in the sphere. Human-shaped but not human — or not just human. More than human. Twice the size of the biggest of us, his body shone as if lit with an internal sun, and when he spoke, we all heard his words without sound. Silent yet thunderous, his will filled our minds.
“It is time.”
Many of us bowed our heads, consciously or unconsciously surrendering to Hermes the right to decide. I kept my eyes on his as he turned to me.
“Geno, you have done well. Prepare yourself for the next test.”
Well, I had survived. Usually, that was enough, unless a warrior had
only survived through cowardice or avoidance of combat. Hermes continued to name names, walking through the list of those the gods had judged to fight well. As each name was mentioned, I saw faces smooth, tension ease. Men and women who would live and fight and feast another day.
Other faces, however, grew more lined, more tense. We had been seven hundreds, once. Now the hall held perhaps half of what it had once sat.
I snapped my attention back to Hermes as he paused.
“Those who have not been named, stand,” Hermes commanded.
Ten or more, none from my table, stood. Some trembled, some raised imploring hands, some wept. Others simply stood and waited. One clenched his fists and looked ready to charge the divine Messenger and fight him bare-handed. None of it mattered ... the gods cared little for your reaction, and nothing seemed to change either their decision or the inevitable action.
“Return to your varipods. Sleep.”
I knew that they would not wake up. It was possible that they were not dead — Hermes had assured us once that such was the case — but we had never seen a daysleeper return. Once Hermes had told me that they were stored, saved. I wasn’t too sure how you stored people, or if the process was like canning or preserving fruit. But the gods were the gods, after all. If they knew how to do it, who was I to question?
The naming was finished. Hermes turned, bade us a good day, and vanished in a cloud of smoke. The feast was over, and another day was about to begin.
No Other Gods Page 1