by Anthology
“Good enough. We need it now.” He looked around the lab until he found Teeny, tubes and wires sticking out of him like a coma patient. “Is it gonna blow if we take those wires out?”
“Well no, but-”
“Good. The Ambridians keep shooting our Azimuths out of the sky so we need something with better camo, and there’s no Tarzons left. Hamazi’s given us a gift—he’ll be very vulnerable for the next three hours, and we need to hit him NOW.” He started yanking out wires, and Teeny convulsed like he’d done on that first day.
“Stop that!” cried Linda. “You’re hurting him!”
He gave her a look that would pulverize a small building. “It’s a bomb,” he growled. “Not a kitten. What’s wrong with you?” His steely-grey eyes swept through the rest of the beeping machinery in the lab.
So I stepped in. Top brass always responded better to fancy words. “General, with all due respect, let us give you the procedures to ensure optimal performance.” He grunted and agreed.
Off Teeny went, rolling away on the little cart the general’s aide had brought. We offered to brief Pitticks with our full notes and recommendations, but he grunted again that as long as the bomb hit the targets in the sims without detection he didn’t give a flying fuck and to get the hell out of his way. They’d do the full debrief for the next one, where they actually needed the extra functionality. He always was an asshole. Tell your viewers not to vote for him.
But anyway, our little boy was off to do good in the world. We’d sent off other bombs in the past, of course, but we’d never felt this kind of pride. Teeny was our bomb. He was smart. He would minimize civilian casualties and do more than the military ever imagined. And once that happened there’d be more Teenies, to make sure any time our military needed we could strike with intelligence. Of course, those would be fully tested.
We popped champagne that night, cheering our brilliant little boy.
***
We all assumed he would hit Hamazi that day, and that’d be that. The slippery bastard had survived more assassination attempts than anyone, and taking him out would be the best step to liberate the corrupt country. It was full of poor saps, starving and downtrodden and mostly hating the freedoms of right-thinking countries like us. I think we even had the guy to prop up there instead, to make sure the new regime would be friendly.
About two months later, with Hamazi still alive and kicking, we were in the lab doing a meta-sim to test out our own systems when a bunch of Pitticks’ men came in and hauled us all off to be court-martialed. You know what happened next—it’s in the public record.
You want me to tell it anyway? Fine. One of them cut our power right before eight more stormed into the lab. They grabbed each of us, two to one. Marched us out and threw us in cells after, even though we’d done exactly as we were supposed to. They hauled in the research team, too.
What happened with Teeny? Well, you ever wondered why I’m in this tech-free cell, and you had to come in person to talk to me? Why they confiscated your smartpad and any recording devices and only gave you a pencil and some paper?
At first I didn’t even know what happened with him. Before they hauled me to this tech-free wing I saw on the prison holos that Hamazi went into a retirement home—a retirement home, of all things!—and his nephew took over.
Now I wouldn’t say that the nephew was a particularly big fan of us, but the “Death to the Pigs” propaganda died out and he focused on his own country’s stuff for a while. He kicked out the old council and set up a constitutional monarchy with a parliament. And within a few years the Ambridian Republic looked like it was in much better shape, with people getting fed and educated, and they started setting up peace treaties with countries left and right. Not us though, but they left us be and I guess that’s fine.
And of course from that alone we were all tried for treason. They assumed we had some ties with the Hamazi regime and purposely sent out a faulty bomb. Complete nonsense, of course. We were just doing our jobs, and it was Pitticks who made it a rush job. Just covering his ass, really.
But it takes more than the whiff of treason to get you locked up in a room with no screens, with real human guards coming to bring you food so you’d have no contact with bots. A few months after the Ambridian regime change, after I’d already been tried and sentenced and tossed away, I started seeing new pictures on the screens in my cell. Usually the pics are all things to keep us prisoners docile, you know? Beaches and forests and puppies and whatnot. Anyway, one day my pics were a little bit different. I started getting pics of Hamazi’s nephew signing peace treaties, and Ambridian villages getting airdrops of medical supplies, and even pics of new schools being built.
Now, I can’t be sure exactly how Teeny did it. It might’ve been from him hacking into Hamazi’s personal Net and reprogramming his guardbots to shuffle him away, or giving intel to the nephew’s guardbots to help maneuver into power, or draining his bank accounts, or what. But I know it was him who made the change, and that he kept on working at it even after his propulsion system gutted out and he had to rely on his solar cells to keep going.
What do you mean, how do I know? Well, lemme tell ya, it’s how they decided I couldn’t get any more access to tech. After those Ambridian pics kept coming, every day for a few months, I got a little message. It was in the corner of the interface, where no text should be. And in a white old-fashioned font, all it said was, “Did I do good?”
Thundergod in Therapy(Short story)
by Effie Seiberg
Originally published by Galaxy's Edge, 2016
Zeus sat on his shitty beige sofa in his shitty beige condo in his shitty beige retirement community. This was what the Court-appointed therapist had recommended—to think of this parole as a fresh start, and to enjoy retirement on Earth. Everything around him was fucking beige except for the fake plant from Ikea, which was a mocking shade of unnatural green. He could imagine the smug grin his judge would have if she’d seen this—
But no, he would give this a fair try. He’d promised Dr. Brinkman (formerly Terminus, the Roman god of boundaries) that he would.
The fake leather on the couch squeaked as he shifted. He could do this. He could be calm and serene. He would start by not destroying the couch.
*
“So, how’s it been going so far?” Dr. Brinkman leaned back in his leather burgundy armchair. The former god of boundaries had interesting decor ideas for what a therapist’s office should look like. Most of those ideas were burgundy. That’s what happened when people soaked your statues in blood offerings for thousands of years, thought Zeus.
“It’s fine.”
“How do you like the condo? I furnished it myself. Very normal, you know?”
Zeus pressed his lips together and muttered, “Certainly no Mount Olympus.”
“Well of course not. Those were the Court terms—prison then banishment and elimination of godly responsibilities, or death. Neither of your options included staying on Mount Olympus.” The therapist paged through a yellow notebook.
“Have you been making the amends we talked about? I see here that we said you’d start small.” Brinkman looked at Zeus over his half-moon glasses—a silly affectation for a god who clearly had perfect vision.
“I’ve started, yeah.” Zeus shifted on the prickly burgundy couch. “I’ve gotta tell you, though, Sisyphus was not happy to see me.” He chuckled. “Poor bastard would’ve thrown that rock at me if he could hoist it up that far.”
“That’s good progress, Zeus. What did you tell him?” Scribble scribble, went Brinkman’s stubby yellow pencil.
“That I was sorry, that I’d let the power I had at the time overwhelm my judgment, and that I’m working on the anger issues. You know, the stuff we talked about.” Zeus scratched his beard. “It was…fine.” It was not fine. It was horrible and the only thing that made it worthwhile was that he left without actually removing the onus.
Scribble scribble. “These are certainly hea
lthy steps. Perhaps this week we can work towards making the amends the Court required, to Thor and Raijin and the Thunderbird. Can you think of ways to make amends to the gods you’ve…ah…slain?”
“I dunno. It’s not like I can go down to the underworld to find them. They’re just dead.” Zeus scratched his beard. “Maybe apologize to the other gods from their pantheons?”
“That’s a good thought. I think you should take this week to come up with a plan.”
“It’ll be so humiliating. I’m Zeus, you know. I was king of the gods once.” Zeus caught Brinkman’s eye. “I know I know. You don’t have to say it. I’m working on having a healthier relationship with power, whether I have it or not, keeping my anger in control, blah blah. I’m on it. I’m doing it. New start, new me.”
The therapist nodded. “Now tell me of your life in the retirement complex. How are you settling in?”
Zeus leaned forward. “Oh. Man. Lemme tell you, I never knew old chicks could be so much fun! They’ll do things the younger girls would never do. Except for Betty Whitshire, that insufferable bitch.You know, she went around spreading all these rumors about me afterwards! And she cheats at shuffleboard.”
“So you’re finding ways to fill your time. Excellent.” Scribble scribble.
“It’s an adjustment, no question. But I’m in it for real, man. A fresh start. No more power-raged Zeus. I’ve got this.”
*
He did not “got this.”
Zeus turned on his air conditioning—the summer was a brutal one—and sat in his shitty fake-leather chair. Why on earth did people retire to a heated hellhole like Florida? He could feel sweat pooling between his bare thighs and the plasticky material.
He picked up the paper stack off of his (shitty, beige) coffee table. Phone bill, $27.95. The phone had been much more useful before the women of the complex started calling him a diseased man-slut, thank you Betty Whitshire. Cable bill, $49.99. He’d gotten into soap operas, and hated himself a little bit more every time he thought about it. Maybe he should cancel his cable. But then he’d really have nothing to do all day. Electric bill, $355.72.
$355.72? What the hell? It wouldn’t completely blow through his monthly stipend, set up by the Court through Mammon, former false god of wealth, but still. He picked up the plastic beige phone on the plastic beige table by the couch, and called the electric company.
He waited more than twenty minutes on hold until a static-fuzzed voice finally came on and crackled, “Thank-you-for-holding-my-name-is-Grace-how-may-I-help-you.”
“My electric bill is too high.” Despite the AC, he was sweating into the plastic earpiece. This place was disgusting.
“What’s your account number?” my-name-is-Grace sounded bored. He read it to her off of the bill.
“Thank you, Mr. Armstrong.” He’d picked the name himself, after Dr. Brinkman had said that names like Mr. Allpowerfulfatherofthegodsdestroyerofmenbringeroflightning would probably make it difficult to assimilate.
Tappa tappa tappa went my-name-is-Grace’s fingers. “I see here that you owe $355.72. This is correct. My records show that we just sent a man out to read your meter last week.”
“Are you kidding me? That’s absurd!”
“Not really sir. It’s a very hot summer and it’s putting a lot of strain on our grid. We’ve asked our customers to cut back on high-power activities like air conditioning unless they absolutely need it, and we see that your usage patterns have remained the same. Prices go up during peak usage periods.”
Zeus wheedled. He charmed. He tried his best banter. It didn’t do one bit of good. My-name-is-Grace wouldn’t budge. He slammed down the plastic phone, cracking the casing. He would go hunt down my-name-is-Grace and fry her with a well-placed bolt of…
No. No, breathe. Dr. Brinkman had always said, “Find an outlet for your anger when you can’t dissolve it.” Fine. A well-placed zap of lightning to the phone did the trick, melting it into a slightly-discolored puddle of plastic around a tangle of metal bits, and he could feel the anger starting to crack away. But $355.72 for the privilege of having his thighs stick to his shitty beige couch? Not in a lifetime.
He considered. If electricity was the problem, this was a thing he could solve. He got in his brown Chevy Geo (Dr. Brinkman had said that anything too flashy would raise eyebrows) and drove to the Home Depot. There, he had a pimple-faced young man with dead eyes explain to him, in excruciating detail, how home wiring worked and how he was connected to his grid. He bought wire-cutters, a voltmeter, pliers, electrical tape, heat-shrink connectors, and a book titled “Do-It-Yourself Electrical Repair: A Shockingly Good Time!” with a cartoon man smiling and getting electrocuted on the cover. All this plus a trunk-sized battery would do the trick.
It took three days, but he disconnected his entire condo from the grid. He smashed holes in the plasterboard walls and yanked out wire after wire—brute force was as good a method as any. Then, in a tangle of metal and plastic, he reconnected everything to the battery, which now sat in the middle of his beige living room instead of the shitty coffee table. The apartment was transformed. Once a beige box of sadness, it was now a rat’s nest of blue and red wire casings which covered the walls (and part of the beige carpet) like ivy with a faint snow of plaster dust.
He sat on his fake leather sofa, put a finger on each of the hulking thing’s contact points and shovedlightning in. The battery’s gauge on the side lit up red, then yellow, then green.
Zeus stood and turned the air conditioner on full blast, then sat back down on the squeaky couch.Ahhhh. There, that was better. Cold air washed across his face and his underarms, fluttering the toga he still wore when he was alone at home. Retirement didn’t have to be all bad. The Court hadn’t stripped him of all his powers.
There was actually something satisfying about finishing a project. Plenty of people did it. Dr. Brinkman said there were many retired gods all living on Earth like humans, and that to his knowledge they’d found it relaxing. Nit, Egyptian goddess of weaving who had kept her role even after the Court of the Gods had stepped in, had apparently retired to a shepherding commune in California. He could do this.
In fact, he could celebrate. Some dolmades would just hit the spot, and maybe a nice shower after to get off the plaster dust. He was just getting out the grape leaves from the fridge when a sharp knock came from the door. He certainly wasn’t expecting company, as the complex’s crabs pariah. Must be a mistake. He rolled out a few grape leaves on a paper towel and started on the rice stuffing.
CRASH
Zeus poked his head out of the tiny beige kitchenette. A man swathed in glittering electronics was standing in his living room. Sprinkled around him were shards of what had been Zeus’ door. He was brushing splinters away from some of his own wires and lights.
“What in the seven pits of Tartarus do you think you’re doing?” roared the once-king of gods. “Look what you’ve done to my door! The condo board is going to fine me for this!”
The man pushed some sort of screened visor up from his green eyes to his forehead. “The condo board. Really. Old man, look what you’ve become.” He glanced around the room with obvious distaste. “Your wiring is shit.”
He wasn’t wrong, but that wasn’t the point.
“Look! You can’t just come barging in here and insulting my project. Do you have any idea who I am?” Zeus dropped the mask of humanity and let his impressive deific light shine through.
Only this guy was unimpressed. He humphed. “I know who you used to be. Zeus, I don’t care what you do here with your silly little ‘condo board’” he said with air quotes, “but you stay the hell off my turf.”
Only a god could look straight at another god. Who was this guy? Zeus thought he knew all the deities out there. Some he only knew by name, some by appearance, but none of them corresponded to this asshole here. “What do you mean, your turf? This is my home. You stay the hell off of my turf.” He crossed his arms, and realized he’d just inadvertent
ly stuffed a grape leaf into his armpit.
“Are you so out of touch you don’t even know?” The man laughed. “I’m Tekhno, god of technology.Which means that any metaphysical, magical, or otherwise occult thing you do with wires and batteries, like this unbelievable mess,” he indicated with a flutter of his hand, “is MY TURF. Stay off it, old man.”
Tekhno pointed an LED-studded finger at Zeus’ fridge, TV, and the massive battery in quick succession. Each one shorted out with a POP POP POP and a shower of sparks. An electrical fire started behind the fridge and quickly spread to the microwave.
“OH COME ON!” So much for making dolmades.
“That’s your one warning, old man. Later!” Tekhno pushed a button on his left side and dissolved into ones and zeroes hovering in the air, which shimmered for a moment and disappeared.
Zeus stared at the spot where the god of technology had stood, which now only had shards of door and a thin veil of smoke creeping from the kitchen. His eye twitched, and a vein pulsed on his forehead. Why that little asshole…no. No. He was retired. He was on a new path. Breathe in, breathe out. Try gratitudes if you don’t have a good outlet, Dr. Brinkman had said. Fine. He was grateful for…
The fire burned merrily, and upped itself to a roar.
He was grateful for…
The vinyl paneling on the kitchen cabinets started to yellow and curl, and a charcoal smear was growing steadily on the backsplash. He made a little cloud form under the flickering fluorescent lights. It rained out the fire in one swift deluge.
HE WAS GRATEFUL FOR…
NO. Fuck this. This was too much. Gritting his teeth, he threw a lightning bolt at the very same place that had just been in flames and watched it light up again.
Some young upstart god, coming around and telling Zeus almighty himself what to do? How dare he! Arrogant little prick thought he could just break down his door. Zeus was retired! The whole point was to retire and let go of the old power and old anger and to just let the world be and this unmitigated asshole just strode right in like he owned fucking everything and…AAAAARRRGH!