Myth Gods Tech - Omnibus Edition: Science Fiction Meets Greek Mythology In The God Complex Universe

by George Saoulidis

  “Did you check on Thomas?” I said to Alkinoe, coughing, my eyes fixed on the ceiling.

  “Yes, I checked… I triple checked. He is gone. I am sorry Deimos,” she told me and she meant it.

  “I am sorry too,” I said, but I was referring to her happiness.

  We went for the van. It was bullet ridden but would get us out of here. Some chemical tank must have kissed the flames because a plume of fire came out of the factory. An entire corner was demolished, as if a titan’s boot had stepped on it.

  Then I saw the 3D printer room cave in. The room my brother had died in, now being buried in the rubble.

  A group of bikes went the opposite way into the night. I half-expected to hear the roar of the engines, but they were eerily silent.

  They loaded me into the back, Alkinoe threw her bloodied body next to me with a relief. She found some painkillers and downed half the bottle. She passed me the rest and I emptied it. The kid drove, and we left the factory behind.

  “What do we do now, Miss Alkinoe?” the kid asked a few kilometers away.

  “Let me think. We patch up first, obviously, or we won’t get very far,” she said lying face down, trying not to wound her back any further. “We won’t get paid now, that’s for sure, so let’s see what other options we have.”

  The kid said, “Our fake id’s that I made still hold up, they are ready. We could stick to the plan. If we sell the one we have for Mr. Thomas we could have enough cash for a few days.”

  Alkinoe looked at my face and bit her lip. I said, “It’s ok, he would want us to do that, to survive. It’s a wasted identity anyway and we don’t have many assets.”

  “I’m sorry Mr. Deimos. I admired Mr. Thomas. He… he was a good man,” the kid told me.

  “I know you did kid. Allright then, you can sell my fake id too. That way you will have more money to get away. I can’t leave, I have a job to do,” I said.

  Alkinoe looked away, and said, “But they will kill you. Or that robot will. Or the other people who are involved in this. Deinomache might be talking large but she is never lying. That being we made is unique, a lot of powerful people want it. Please come with us.”

  “Nah, I have to find that robot. He killed my brother and punched me. I have to kill him back and punch him, in that order,” I said loudly and a terrible sense of hybris fell upon me.

  Will Deimos get his revenge? Will the team manage to escape? What was the being that they 3D printed anyway? This is the end of Deimos’ story for now, leave a review of the book and tell us if you are dying to know the rest of it. This taste of the God Complex Universe will be expanded in the future, join the Mythographers to learn about it.

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  The Impossible Quest Of Hailing

  A Taxi On Christmas Eve

  George Saoulidis

  A modern retelling of

  “A Christmas Carol”

  By Charles Dickens

  Stave One

  “Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that,” he read out loud from the first page and then shut the book closed. He exhaled, a puff of frozen breath forming in front of his mouth and said, “And this is supposed to be a fairytale? How morbid.”

  He held the book in his hands, a real, physical print of “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens. It was only a mass-produced cheap copy but it was vintage enough in this time and age. His late partner had left it on his desk, with a handwritten dedication for him. Scrooge never figured out why.

  His name wasn’t really Scrooge of course. He was John.

  People just called him like that, and the nickname stuck. It was just that every Christmas Eve since his business partner’s death on the exact same day, he was reminded of the man. Scrooge didn’t have any pictures or anything, just the worn old book in his drawer. He never got to read the thing, it was too dour. He just held it in his hands, feeling the paper, thinking. There’s something about the texture of books that appeals to people. The shiny, glossy surfaces of the reading devices nowadays just don’t evoke anything similar.

  Across the freezing office was his assistant, Clara. She was a single mother of one, in her late thirties and needed a new dye of blonde hair. She could have been attractive, if she had managed to get some sleep, enough money to pay her bills and a miracle to lift the worry off her shoulders. She was an accountant, the only employee to Scrooge, and she ended up juggling every single job, manning the phones, doing the accounts, fixing technical issues with the techs, keeping the office livable with a couple of plants.

  She was currently rolled up in a blanket like a gyro wrap, shaking and sniffing her nose. The frigid office was dark, illuminated only by the lights outside, some colourful ones from the Christmas decorations, others simply street signs and lamp-posts, and also by the computer monitors on their desks. She was wearing knit colourful gloves and was tapping away on her phone, constantly stopping to check out something on her monitor by pressing a button, sighing, and then turning back to her phone. It was doing gling sounds all the time, filled with incoming and outgoing Christmas wishes to old friends and faraway family. The glove tips wouldn’t normally work on the touchscreen, but she had those popular touchscreen gloves with capacitive elements sewn in the fingers. It was a small comfort in the cold office.

  “Mr. Tsifoutis, it’s still not working,” she nagged to no one in particular.

  “The server works half the time, so it’s good enough. How many hours do you need to input a few accounts woman?” Scrooge grunted, his eyes not lifting towards her.

  “But I’m waiting for over an hour to finish this up and go home. The IT isn’t responding, they must have left the office for Christmas Eve.” She sniffed her nose. In the beginning, she was trying to do it quietly, discreet like a lady should, but after years and years of enduring a winter office she had just given up and pretty much blew her nose like a loud trumpet.

  “Bah! Customer service they call it! It’s the same thing every Christmas, you just can’t get any work done anywhere,” Scrooge spat out, his face turning sour.

  “People just want to go home to their families Mr. Tsifoutis,” she explained softly.

  He got the hint. “Days off with pay… In my day, you could work 14 hours a day 7 days a week and not get paid till four months later,” he said shaking his finger.

  She waited calmly for him to finish his rant, pulling up the blanket in a futile quest to make herself warm.

  “Christmas! Bah! Nothing but a marketing ploy, I tell you. Selling Christmas ornaments and Christmas gifts two full months before the holiday itself. And the waste of it all! The city lights, paid with my taxes. Stupid snow frosting on buildings, requiring money to put on and then money to clean off! A waste. They slap a Christmas packaging on products and mark-up the price by 30%!”

  “Thirty percent,” she nodded patiently.

  He still had more coming but he suddenly felt tired, so he sagged back into his chair. The back was worn and some screws were poking out of the lower back, making it really uncomfortable. He didn’t spare any cash to get new office chairs of course. They were fine and sturdy, they still had at least 10 years of good use. “Anyway, go home. I’ll finish up here and upload it in a while. You’re gonna drain my account anyway, you can have the day off tomorrow.”

  She stood up and smiled, putting her stuff in her bag, arranging her desk, pulling down the blinds.

  Scrooge grunted at her, “But I want you here the next day half an hour earlier!”

  “Yes mister,” she said, and watered the plants, cleaned up her cup of tea, picked up his cup and put a new cup of water in the boiler. She left it boiling, cleaned up the t
iny little kitchen, went to turn off the Christmas lights she had brought to decorate the office, remembered Mr. Scrooge had already demanded her to stop wasting power and turned it off, went back to her desk and sent the accounts of the day to her boss, went to his desk, threw away the trash, dusted off his hanging coat, leaned to his computer, pulled up the accounts so he could update them as soon as the server was running again, went back to the kitchen, poured hot tea, brought it to his desk savouring its warmth for a second too long, stood in front of his desk ready to leave and then said goodnight.

  “Good night Clara,” Scrooge said with the tone a boss has when he allows his employee to leave.

  “Maybe we should do the upgrade Mr. Tsifoutis,” she said hesitantly. “Our service depends on it, it’s been years. I’ve shown you the cost, it’s not that high and…”

  Scrooge raised his hand interrupting her, “I know. I’ll think about it.”

  She was referring to their service, which was their object of trade really. Scrooge was running an accounting internet service for small businesses. Despite that their platform hadn’t been updated in, pretty much ever, they were still competitive due to their low prices. The cost was kept down of course, by skimping on things like proper furniture, internet hosting, required employees and, office heating.

  “Merry Christmas sir,” she said cordially and turned to the door.

  “Bah. A marketing ploy I tell you. Don’t you listen to anything I say woman?”

  “Of course I do, but Merry Christmas anyways,” she said and she meant it.

  As she was opening the door, Scrooge’s cousin showed up. He was fat and huge and was always huffing from exertion, making his cheeks red. He made a great Santa Claus, so he showed up in costume. “Hello Miss Clara! Merry Christmas to you,” he said and presented a small gift to her. “For your son.” Then he reached into his red Santa bag and fished out a party horn as well.

  “Merry Christmas Mr. Tsifoutis,” she smiled back. “I’m sure he’ll love it.”

  “Ho ho ho!” the cousin bellowed out and then leaned in to whisper, “Is Scrooge still here?”

  “Yes,” she replied, “Go right in, he’s just waiting for the system to unfreeze.”

  “Unfreeze? Why, in this cold it might take some time,” he said with jolly, half-stepping in the office.

  She sneezed and then blew her nose loudly like a trumpet, that echoed into the corridors. Cousin Santa blew his own party horn in a similar note.

  They both laughed and wished each other happy holidays.

  Scrooge hid his face in his palms. He didn’t really want to face his cousin, he was dodging his invite for days.

  The cousin Santa came in and bellowed, “Ho ho ho dear cousin!” and blew his party horn, in a loud prrr. He then went to the decorated Christmas lights and turned them on, illuminating the place in various flickering colours.

  Scrooge stood up and ran to the lights, turning them off. “Are you trying to bankrupt me man?”

  “Come on, a few LEDs wont make a real difference. Be merry! Be jolly!” he said, blowing his party horn and turning the Christmas lights on again.

  Scrooge turned them off. “Bah! It’s just a marketing ploy.”

  Santa turned them on. “Will you come to our Christmas dinner tomorrow?”

  Scrooge turned them off. “No. I have work to do at home. Clara won’t be coming to work tomorrow, I have to keep up the pace.”

  Santa turned them on. “You can’t possibly work on Christmas Day! Come to us for dinner. There’ll be turkey! And sweets! And chocolate. We’ll have a merry old time…”

  Scrooge turned them off. “A waste, overpriced dinners when you can’t afford them. Don’t be coming to me for loans in a few weeks.”

  He was referring of course, to actual loans. He’d never lent out money just like that, not even to family, whatever little of both he had left. They were actual personal loans, signed in triplicate, incurring interest at “market average” rates.

  Santa sighed and gave up. “Fine. I know you’ve seen my invitation days ago. I know the message I left to Clara was passed to you. This is just some excuse, I don’t know why you don’t want to spend the holiday with family. Anyway, the offer stands. Our door is always open for you,” he said, blew out the party horn one last time, though it was something sad this time, and left.

  Scrooge shut the door and sat back down to his uncomfortable office chair. He pressed a button on his computer and waited for the server to respond. It took more than two minutes for it to spit out an “error: unreachable” message.

  It was fine. He could wait. The hosting service he used was the cheapest one there is, and that meant it was poorly maintained and came with customer support that didn’t really care.

  He picked up the tea, that was scalding hot when Clara brought it but now was barely warmer than the freezing room, and sipped, while staring outside into the dark Christmas Athens. It was still afternoon but it was already pitch going for black.

  Someone knocked on the door and he stood up, protesting loudly all the way. “What now? I told you I won’t come to the damn dinner,” he mumbled and opened the door.

  He looked down and saw three little children, fluffed out with big coloured coats and knit caps and gloves. The girl was Romani, the boy was Greek and the second boy was Nigerian.

  They cheered in unison, “Na ta poume?” which was the protocol of Christmas Carol initiation. They didn’t really have the patience to wait for a proper reply so they began jingling away their little triangles and singing.

  It was so merry and sweet.

  Scrooge yelled at them and shushed them. “Stop this racket! Stop at once. Who told you to start with this cacophony?”

  They extended their little gloved hands and waited for their treat. Their paycard was in hand, a simple tap from another would confirm a small-amount transaction instantly.

  “I’m not giving you anything, you little extortionists! Coming here uninvited, mangling out a couple of verses and then demanding payment. No. And you, aren’t you a Muslim?” he said and pointed at the little Roma girl.

  “We like Christmas, it’s a time for family and happiness,” she replied with her sweet little voice. “That’s what mommy says,” she added.

  Scrooge squinted. “Do you know how insane that is? Celebrating the birth of Christ from another religion? Tell your mother that I won’t be fooled by those pigtails and those big round eyes. A fine scam, if you ask me. Getting money every year without a receipt,” he nodded.

  The children looked at one another, but since they were stuffed like turkeys they had to turn their whole bodies to exchange glances. They kept their hands up, paycards in hand, but a little lower now.

  “And you,” Scrooge said, pointing at the Nigerian boy. “What are you?”

  The little black boy shrugged. “I’m Greek mister.”

  “So you are Orthodox Christian?”

  “Yes sir. My name is Nico, from the Saint Nicholas,” the boy replied, the words repeated by heart. He gifted the bitter man a shiny-white smile that could melt your heart and fill you up with hope.

  “Blasted immigrants,” Scrooge said and slammed the door to their face.

  Scrooge sat on his desk and hit the button once again. His accounting service attempted to connect for two whole minutes and then spat out an error.

  He exhaled, his breath visible in the air. He picked up the phone, but all he got was a recorded message. His assistant had already tried that of course. He thought he wouldn’t mind waiting for the server to reconnect, but the absence of a specific timeframe made him weary. If he had known of a general amount of time it might take, he would be willing to wait. But alas, this seemed it would keep him up till the morning.

  Scrooge grunted and searched his emails for the long overdue report of the service upgrade that was necessary. He didn’t print it of course, toner was so damn expensive, as if it were made of gold particles. Also, what about the environment? Yes, digital files are
nice and cheap. He put on his glasses and read the report his late business partner had left him.

  It explained in detail the steps necessary to upgrade the accounting service, to improve speed, customer experience and unlock some new features. It was all ready and done, but it wasn’t yet needed for a company this small, as it was when his partner was alive. As poor Marco fell increasingly ill, the business growth was halted and was left on the shoulders of Scrooge. He could manage just fine thank you, but regarding the computer and technical aspects it was all on his partner. Scrooge had shopped around for another computer engineer, and they had all asked for an arm and a leg in cash. Marco in his last days, stir-crazy from lying in bed all day, had prepared the system update for when the company would pick up pace again.

  The problem was, that the upgrade demanded even more powerful servers, some shiny new gear with fancy names and numbers, all costing more and more and more. Scrooge had been postponing the upgrade for a long time. He checked the report’s date. Seven years? Has it really been so long? Marco had planned for a year after his death, but Scrooge hadn’t changed anything for six more years, to the dismay of their customers and Miss Clara.

  Scrooge rubbed his chin and his hand hovered over the mouse. He never did things in haste, but now, for some reason, something was itching him. He clicked the long-forgotten button in their system and initiated the update program his partner had set-up as his last contribution.

  The computer began to process things, as it always does and Scrooge relaxed, sure that the process was a lengthy one.

  Where the program ran, a face appeared in a video. Scrooge had to straighten his glasses to see better and for a second he held his breath. He hadn’t seen that face in so long, but it was clearly… Marco’s face.