99 Gods: War

by Randall Farmer

  “Portland always wants to talk,” Atlanta said. She suspected Portland talked in her sleep.

  “Anyway, I was the first person she’d been able to talk to, for real, since it happened.”

  “The Apotheosis.” Dana’s big trick was to be able to talk to Gods and not get the stammers. A good trick for someone as young and naive as Dana. Even Jan, older than her appearance and well blooded, had stammered at first.

  “Is apotheosis the right term? How convinced are you that you’re a legit God?” Dana said. “I’m not doubting your miraculous abilities, I’m doubting the word. Both Portland and I have agreed to keep an open mind on the subject.”

  “Demigod works better,” Jan said. Atlanta flickered her eyes at the nosy woman. “Just saying.”

  “Portland’s worries mirror my own,” Atlanta said. “And demigod is definitely the wrong term.” Jan’s companion rolled her eyes. Atlanta took a sip of coffee to cover her annoyance. “Continue.”

  “Portland gained a bunch of smarts from, um, Apotheosis and wasn’t sure what to do with them, or what she should be doing with her miraculous powers besides helping stop nations from warring on other nations.” The only job the Angelic Host had given the 99 Gods. “She was afraid she might have what she called an Imago problem. You see, she’d been an atheist before, er, Apotheosis, and wasn’t sure she believed in herself.” Dana covered her mouth to hide a smile. “She was afraid that one day her disbelief in herself might come true and she might vanish. That’s when we had the discussion about the limitations of the 99 Gods and I came up with my idea about distributing her divine power. Instead of ending up being her chief of staff, Portland made me into her first, um, whatever.”

  “You don’t agree with Portland’s assessment that you’d make a better Supported than chief of staff, do you?” Atlanta said. She brought the front legs of her chair back down and leaned forward. She opened herself up to the entire panoply of Dana’s borrowed powers, peering as deeply into them as she could sense. They were intricate, complex and disquieting.

  “No, I don’t,” Dana said. “But she’s the God and I’m the mortal…and there’s something about being a God, even if you don’t think of yourself as one, that makes for easy we’re doing it my way because I say so decision making. You Gods are all going to have horrific CEO disease.”

  “Except me,” Atlanta said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t even pretend to be as limited as a CEO.”

  Dana winced. “What are your goals?” she asked.

  “Kick asses and take names,” Jan said. Which was fine by her.

  Atlanta laughed. “I already told you. I’m interested in security.”

  “Security is an ideal, not a goal. How do you plan to achieve it?”

  How in the world did someone like Portland luck into Dana? Atlanta thought, a mite greedy. “You want to know a secret?” she asked, avoiding Dana’s question about goals.

  Dana licked her lips, nervous again. “You talk, I’ll listen.”

  “Portland didn’t want you as her chief of staff because you’re too difficult,” Atlanta said. “She was afraid you’d walk all over her.” Dana gritted her teeth. “You want to be my chief of staff?”

  “You’re shitting me,” Dana said. Another blurt, another bit of truth from her. “I can’t. Not without Portland’s permission.” Meaning ‘yes’.

  “We’ll talk to her about it soon. Any interest?”

  “Jesus!” Dana said. “You’re, um, a killer. I’m a save-the-whales save-the-environment anti-globalism anti-capital punishment anti-war anti-tyrant died-in-the-wool leftie. I don’t even want the Suits dead, even after Indulgence promised me he was going to rape me into imbecility after their all-hands meeting…before killing me.”

  The virginal Dana sounded like she ate nails for breakfast. Atlanta empathized.

  “You’d make a better chief of staff than a spy.” For one thing, with all the miraculous power Portland had given her, Dana had still allowed one of the Suits to capture her in a trivial manner. A rather pathetic Suit, in Atlanta’s opinion. Dana needed some real training.

  “I know,” Dana said. “But…”

  “Look,” Atlanta said. “You’ll try and change me. Good. I don’t want a yes-woman, I want another viewpoint. I’ll change you, but not as much as you fear. I’m not setting up Murder, Inc. I have to kill the nasties because I can sense their vileness and it pisses me off. What I need help with are the more mundane aspects of this divinity shit I’ve been stuck with, the basics of being a Territorial God. For instance, I need ways to dispense miracles without it turning into a goddamned circus.” The Host, no matter what you named them, had seen fit to put the ‘dispense miracle’ urge in the back of Atlanta’s head, and she couldn’t do a single thing about it.

  “You want someone to manage your economic disruptions,” Dana said.

  “That’s one way of looking at it.”

  “Well, okay. I’ll think about it.”

  Dana might have a PhD in economics, but she clearly had a post-doc in difficult.

  Atlanta turned to the unnamed woman and pointed a finger. “You are?” she said, doing her unstoppable Territorial God demand.

  “Epharis,” the woman said, blushing when she realized Atlanta had buffaloed her. Epharis had long black hair, a plain round face, pale ghostly skin and deep black soul-sucking eyes.

  The name meant nothing to Atlanta, but Dana said “The Epharis?”, and went off spouting titles of poetry collections and modern snooty lit artsy novels, nothing of the sort Atlanta ever read. Her books had space ships on the covers.

  With a shoo and a “Go have some good fan time” from Jan, Dana and the Epharis went off to talk highbrow lit.

  Leaving Jan with Atlanta. Atlanta leaned forward and put her elbows on the table. “You and your Indigo people need to keep your eyes out for trouble.” Jan frowned. “I know your group uses cute investments to support your activities and support the PTSD people in your group who can’t work anymore.” Jan’s frown curled larger. “I rescued Dana over there from the Seven Suits, and they said, upfront, that they’re out hunting down abnormal people of your ilk. If they find you, they’ll take your money away.”

  “Thanks,” Jan said, relaxing. “Is one of them named ‘Passion’?” Atlanta nodded. “If they’re all as bad as Passion, they’re very bad news.” Jan leaned forward close enough for Atlanta to notice her roots were flaming red, a color so uncommon as to make a person stand out in a crowd and stay in one’s memories. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level. “We learned a few days ago about a Telepath who had a run in with Miami. The Telepath won.”

  “Telepath? There are Telepaths as well?” Atlanta said. She swore that wherever she looked, she discovered more varieties of abnormal humans.

  Jan nodded. “They’re a rarity, obviously.” Said by someone who was a rarity herself, implying there had to be damned few Telepaths. “But it’s a slap in the face of those ego-driven Gods who thought nobody could oppose them. We’re afraid they’re going to take it personally, and come after all of us, even people as obviously harmless as we are.”

  “Save your line for someone you can sell it to, woman,” Atlanta said. The Indigo group’s tricks had their uses, even against Gods. Atlanta suspected they were far more dangerous to the Gods than even they knew, a pleasing thought. “You and your peers might want to sit down with me and discuss defensive tactics. You’re mine to protect, if you’re willing.”

  “I’ll pass your offer along,” Jan said. “I’m willing. I don’t know about the others.”

  This fit Atlanta’s knowledge of the Indigo group: fractious.

  “This is no time for petty factionalism, you do know.”

  Jan nodded, sad and exasperated.

  6. (Dave)

  “Dave! Welcome back,” Roger said.

  “It’s good to be back,” Dave Estrada said. At least I back in good, he thought, as he walked backwards across Mirabelle’
s large music room, dragging his cello behind him. He sat down carefully in a chair and put down his cello case, ready for some practice. The room was filled with several armless cushioned chairs and a few stools arranged in a circle around a glass coffee table, with music stands in a cluster in the corner, Mirabelle’s piano in another corner, and racks of sheet music and a couple of beautiful framed prints of violins hanging on the walls. The single plate glass window showed a gorgeous view of the full moon lighting up the Rockies.

  “How did the operation go?” Roger said. He worked on his bow frog, some imperfection Dave’s chamber music group’s near-professional violinist could see and Dave could not.

  “Good and bad,” Dave said, waving his right hand back and forth. “Bad that they still don’t understand the source of the headaches, good that they didn’t find any new problems.” Cadmium poisoning was the cause of the headaches, but was also the cause of everything else wrong with him. They couldn’t say why he had so much trouble with the headaches, or what the trigger was, or much of anything about what might help him deal with them. He only wished they had been able to find out the nothing without the bother of the exploratory abdominal surgery. “I’ve still got some tests out at Johns Hopkins, though. My doc thinks they’re going to be able to figure out what’s going on.” Dave, unfortunately, suspected his doctors thought what ailed him was very bad news.

  “I’ve heard one of the Gods is named Doctor,” Mirabelle said, putting a plate of appetizers and various teas down on the coffee table. She sat down beside Dave, patted his knee and gave him a smile. “He might be able to help.” Mirabelle pushed fifty, the oldest member of Dave’s chamber music group. She still played a mean piano.

  “Oh, that’s an idea,” Dave said. Uh huh. Right up there with flying to the moon. “I’ll bet he has one hell of a waiting list.” Roger guffawed. Although the 99 Gods had appeared a month and a half ago, Dave still didn’t know the names of more than a couple dozen of them. At a ratio of one God per seventy million mortals, they were spread thin.

  Mirabelle’s front door rang and she went to open it. Steve Clement, Dave’s best friend, walked in and waved at them. “Full house for once,” Steve said, rushing over to give Dave a hug. “Hear about what Boise’s decided to do?” Dave attempted not to grimace at the jolt.

  “No,” Mirabelle said. “Tell me!” Mirabelle had connections, primarily through her sister, who held a seat in the Colorado State Senate in the district next door to Dave’s. Because of her sister, Mirabelle had actually met Boise, the local Territorial God, more than once, and lived to tell the tale. Often.

  “He’s decided to chuck it and go live up in the northern Rockies,” Steve said.

  “Well, that’s strange,” Dave said. For a Territorial God, Boise sounded boring, unlike Akron and her media interests, Dubuque with his political activism, and Portland with her unceasing charity work. “Any idea why?”

  Dave expected Steve to respond, but Mirabelle took up the gauntlet. “I was afraid he might do something along those lines. Despite his public cheer, he’s not fully come to grips with his elevation to Godhood. On our second meeting, he told us he wasn’t satisfied with the reasons they had been given by the Angelic Host for their elevation.”

  “Angelic Host?” Steve said.

  Roger cleared his throat, softly. Yes, yes, this is chamber music practice, yes, we remember, Dave told himself. Dave, putative leader and with Mirabelle the money behind their group, wanted to listen to more about Boise, so he signaled for Mirabelle to continue. Given the seventy million to one ratio, Dave wanted all the gossip he could gather on the subject of the Gods.

  “Oh, sorry, that’s just a bit of the 99 Gods mystery they haven’t talked about in front of the media yet,” Mirabelle said. “They, the Angelic Host, are the ones who created the 99 Gods at God Almighty’s behest.”

  “So it wasn’t God himself?” Dave said, dismayed.

  Mirabelle shook her head. “That’s what they implied, but after Boise blurted out his ‘Host’ comment and got asked the obvious questions, he said we should remember that in the Bible and in other religious texts, it’s often Angels who do God’s work, not the Creator himself. He, Boise, said the presence of God in the Angelic Host was self-evident.”

  “That aside tossed aside, you’re saying Boise doesn’t think the new ‘Nations shall not War’ commandment was enough of a reason for the 99 Gods creation?” Dave said. Steve groaned. “I’d think the commandment and their various instructional missions would be enough.”

  Mirabelle took Dave by the hand and led him over to his cello stool, where he tried not to jostle his stitches or his head as he sat. Mirabelle went to sit on her piano bench and Steve took out his viola and started to tune it.

  “It may be enough for us, but then again we’re all perfectly ordinary people, not Gods,” Mirabelle said, not even looking at her fingers as they danced up and down a G Major scale. “We just don’t understand how different the Gods are yet, what with them being so closed mouth about their true capabilities. They can wield what they call ‘willpower’ and make reality bend to their wishes, but what limits do they have on what they can do with their willpower? The largest public example the Gods have shown of this ‘willpower’ is still Akron’s ‘this is how a God paints a house’ demonstration.” Dave had seen the YouTube clip several times and it still appalled him. Akron had taken a five by seven photo of a house, got out a two ounce child’s plastic paint tub and a tiny brush, and wherever she dabbed paint on the photo paint appeared on the real house. Then she led the media around the outside of the newly painted house to confirm the reality of her work. Their greatest work, the forcible disarmament of North Korea, the Gods had done outside of camera range. “Boise, after being asked what he had gained most out of Apotheosis” the 99 Gods term for their creation “said he didn’t make mistakes on IQ tests any more. I found his answer rather telling.”

  “You’re saying stopping war and updating our religions isn’t enough of a challenge for them?” Steve said.

  “I think what I’m saying is that part of what God Almighty put the 99 Gods on Earth to do was find their own challenges,” Mirabelle said. “Or at least that’s my interpretation of Boise’s comments. After war, he talked most about the big problems of our day. Like overpopulation, famines, plagues, poverty, the environment, natural disasters and the side effects of technological change and globalization. He just didn’t know where to go next.”

  “In any event, before we get on with the practice,” Dave said. He hadn’t retrieved his bow yet. “What did Boise say he was going to do in the Rocky Mountains? Did he say where?”

  “Boise’s going to live in the Salmon River Mountains, at least to start with, according to the press release,” Steve said. “He’s going to be meditating. The quote was ‘I’ve always liked the Old Testament wilderness prophets, so much so I think I’m going to become one.’” He smiled. “So, on to Mozart’s 493rd?”

  They made music, or at least practiced it.

  “Magic and witchcraft are believed in by the vast majority of mankind, and by immense numbers even in Christian countries. They have always been believed in, so far as I know. In following up the thread of history, we always find conjuring or witch work of some kind, just as long as the narrative has space enough to include it. Already, in the early dawn of time, the business was a recognized and long established one. And its history is as unbroken from that day down to this, as the history of the race.” – P.T. Barnum, Humbugs of the World

  “With the 99 Gods around, though, where’s the need for faith? You can just go ask them.”

  7. (Dave)

  “Headache?”

  “Constant,” Dave said. At least his headaches hadn’t completely crippled him. He had still managed to summon up enough energy to take Steve up on his offer to come visit. Dave stretched out on Steve’s couch and closed his eyes, forcing himself to relax. Steve’s home was a comfortable patio home near downtown Denver, narrow an
d deep, with two stories and a basement, decorated with an eclectic mix of battered old hand-me-downs and polished art deco. The couch fell into the category of battered old hand-me-down and sucked Dave down with a deep cushional softness. Marty – Andy Martin Madrid, Steve’s domestic partner – puttered about and finally came out of the kitchen with a magnum of wine, three wine glasses, and a plate of various cheeses.

  “Here we go, you two,” Marty said. “So, how’s Tiff coping with all your problems?”

  Tiffany was Dave’s wife. “Three guesses and the first two don’t count. She’s putting in longer hours at the office and at home, losing herself in her work.” Dave didn’t understand Tiff’s work, all sorts of obscure IT crap she either evaded explanation of or refused to talk about. Steve and Marty knew Tiff quite well. “She’s upped Olinda’s hours again, too.”

  Marty set the tray down on the polished black coffee table and sat opposite Steve in an odd looking chair with a puffy white cushion and narrow black arms that Steve said was a ‘Shanghai sofa seat’. He poured three glasses of wine. “Olinda’s your immigrant combo maid and nanny?” Marty asked. Dave nodded. “Must be nice.”

  Dave didn’t comment. Neither Marty nor Steve had high paying careers.

  “How’s your company doing?” Steve asked. “I mean, you’re a co-founder of the place.”

  Co-flounder, these days. “As good as could be expected with me out for a while,” Dave said. “Hernandez Industries” the Denver-based mining and extraction firm currently DPMJ’s main client and Dave’s only client “didn’t have any new major disasters or significant problems while I was out, but the minor disasters are piled high and deep. As always.” Dave foresaw meetings. Endless eye-drooping meetings. He would rather be out in the field doing things.

  “I was thinking more of the effects of the 99 Gods,” Steve said. “We’re obviously going to get a wondrous utopia soon, but a lot of pundits think we’re going to suffer through some sort of major economic upheaval first. For instance, the major military contractors are already yowling. I think that’s why the President’s going on about how everybody needs to be patient about the budget and demobilization issues. The initial euphoria’s wearing off.”