The Goddess Quest

by Lawrence Ambrose

  The

  GODDESS

  QUEST

  By

  Lawrence Ambrose

  Copyright 2018

  All Rights Are Reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced without permission of the author.

  Proofread and Edited by Sweet Syntax

  Cover by Lawrence Ambrose

  COMMENTS, QUESTIONS, OR COMPLAINTS? Please email me at lawrencej63@gmail.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  GLOSSARY

  SUPER WORLD

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 1

  CRUISING DOWN SANTA MONICA Boulevard, the Humvee's broad left tires caressed the street's dividing line. The convertible's top was up, and salty, sea air blew through Alex's blond mane. What a beautiful day in the neighborhood – especially if you happen to be a god. Alex's friend and sidekick, Brandon, wore a dry smile as if to acknowledge his friend's megalomaniacal musings.

  A big Ford SUV, though not nearly as big as their Humvee, pulled up alongside them at a stoplight, its speakers raging rap with an Armageddon beat. Four young dudes sneered across at them as if daring them to do something about it.

  Brandon rolled his eyes. Alex smiled and tapped the stereo controls. Soon the opening strains of Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries ripped into the rap song, stealing its thunder. The sneers on the young men's' faces vanished. They tried cranking up the volume, but it was hopeless. The Humvee's QuadZ Infinity speakers and amplifier were far beyond these posers' budget, as was their monster ride itself.

  The SUV turned off at the next intersection.

  "Check that out," said Brandon, pointing to the swaying hips of a tall young woman in tight-as-a-tourniquet jeans and stiletto heels marching down the sidewalk ahead of them.

  Alex switched from Wagner to the Doors' Hello, I Love You.

  Hello, I love you

  Won't you tell me your name?

  Hello, I love you

  Let me jump in your game?

  The girl – female avatar, anyway – glanced back at them with a semi-appreciative smile. Alex eased up on the gas. The girl's ass and legs were a work of art – topnotch modeling. They alone had to cost her a small mint. But what did she look like from the front?

  "Pull over, dude," Brandon begged. "Up there!"

  He pointed to a parking space more appropriate to a subcompact. Alex sighed. One thing that kept Bran from cracking the Mage level was how much he relied on the thing between his legs. Ironically, it was the only thing below his waist that worked in the Real. Or maybe that was the explanation for his virtual lasciviousness?

  Alex cruised ahead of her and squeezed the Humvee between two cars halfway onto the sidewalk. A couple pushing a stroller moved around them with a scowl, their baby pointing at them and cooing with apparent approval.

  The girl stopped, hands on her hips, a fierce light in her dark blue eyes. Alex looked her over critically. She was stunning: milky features, raven hair, full, pouty lips, pert breasts straining against the fabric of her burgundy tube top. Top of the line Model Level. Impressive.

  Brandon whistled. "Nice work, baby. Or whatever you are."

  "I'm Athena. And I'm no baby."

  Athena. A name they'd heard many times over the last few years. An avatar on the brink of myth-hood. Assuming she was The Athena.

  If she was The Athena, Alex wasn't quite sure about her power. She was not a known frequenter of the Parallel Cities. She was more an off-planet player. Last Alex had heard, she was mining loot and power on the Red Planet. Manifestations of power differed within the Omniverse. Sometimes it was like comparing apples to oranges or scissors to stone – a player was never quite sure how they'd play out until a fight or contest occurred. All part of the fun.

  Alex and Brandon exchanged looks. Not a lot of profit in taking down an opposing player, unless you were in a direct competition within a game. Were they in direct competition?

  "Are you really Athena?" Brandon asked, skepticism dripping from his words.

  "You want to test me and find out?"

  "What are you here for?" Alex asked.

  "None of your fucking business." She eyed the Humvee. "Wow, that's some big ride. Compensating for something?"

  "You want to suck my cock and find out?" Bran grinned.

  "Or maybe I'll cut it off, you misogynist prick."

  That normally would be just gamesmanship talking, but in this case, the young woman slid out a large knife that might've belonged on the end of a bayonet. Alex considered the possibilities. Any injurious or fatal wound in Reality Two would cause a reset, taking you out of the game for a mandatory twenty-four hours.

  But Brandon was climbing down from the Humvee. Alex started to protest, but stopped with a resigned sigh.

  "You wearing a full metal jacket?" Bran asked her.

  "Who's asking?"

  "Call me Ishmael."

  "Pretty literary for a dumb jock."

  "Who says I'm a jock?"

  "Right. I should've said 'dumbass pretend jock.' Of course, you and your blond Adonis friend are really just wimpy nerds living in your parents' basement."

  "And you're probably some four-eyed fat chick who's never been laid. Standard variety farm animal."

  Athena walked toward them, shifting her big knife in her hand.

  "I will crush you," she said. "A big macho black dude who's probably some twerpy Asian guy who wishes he had a big cock."

  "Gosh," said Alex. "And here I thought feminists weren't supposed to be racists."

  "By the way," said Brandon, "I really am black and I do have a big cock." He traded a look with Alex, half-frowning. "Well, a reasonably sized one, anyway."

  "Okay," said Athena. "Clearly, you two have some bromance issues. But I'm still going to destroy you. Who wants to die first?"

  "You don't know who you're messing with, lady," said Brandon.

  "You're the ones who don't know who you're messing with."

  Athena raised her palm. A thick, golden beam of light flashed out and struck Brandon in the chest. Brandon collapsed and disappeared. Alex's half-frown compressed into a thin, hard line.

  "My turn, bitch," Alex said.

  Athena brandished her big knife. With a shrug, Alex drew a Glock .40 and shot her twice in the head. Her disbelieving eyes before she evaporated filled Alex's heart with hope for a benevolent universe.

  Alex climbed back into the Humvee with mixed feelings. No fun afternoon with Brandon looking for the "Golden Surfer." On the plus side, Alex had taken down Athena, if that's who she really had been. Her arrogance suggested she was the real deal. That was a huge feather in Alex's gaming cap. If she'd known she was facing Dionysus35567 , a world-famous gamer, she would've dropped her silly posturing with the knife and powered up her defenses to the max. Would it have been enough? Alex doubted it, but as the discussion groups would soon be yapping about, who knew for sure? They wouldn't know for sure it was the Dionysus – Dionysus35567 – but some would guess it was.

  Sirens sounded in the distance. Alex drove past the couple with the baby down the sidewalk
– the woman frantically speaking into her cell and glaring at him. No doubt, she'd called the police. Many gamers, perhaps egged on by virtue-signalers in the media or even their parents, were calling for stricter penalties for violence in the Parallel Worlds. Sure, blowing away a Snogth on the planet Elxron was fine, but on Earth, people took Sunday virtual strolls with their family. OmniCorp should uphold the veneer of civilization, some argued.

  Anticipating arrest, Alex ditched the Humvee and sprinted across the street dodging traffic to the Pleasure Emporium. After purchasing an afro, porno pink shorts and matching tortoise-shell sunglasses, Alex was gay enough to make a pink flamingo swoon. Not that many would even notice on the Boulevard.

  Strutting down the sidewalk, Alex shot the police car cruising past a fetching come-hither glance that the officers inside studiously ignored. They might've been avatars or sims – most likely, sims – but while the system certainly knew who and where Alex was, there were rules, and those rules forbade special knowledge to police pursuing a wrongdoer.

  Alex caught a cab to Santa Monica. The loss of the Humvee – Alex had rented it under an assumed name – posed little concern. Besides, there was a good chance of making back the $200 OD deposit one hundredfold by locating the Golden Surfer.

  Ah, thought Alex, Venice Beach in summer. Pretty much the same as Venice Beach in winter. Eternal sunlight and soft breezes and an occasional smattering of rain. Not much different from the real thing.

  Panhandlers and street performers vied for attention and coin along the Boardwalk. Many of them were avatars of young students or artists on a barebones budget and cheap gaming modules who could hardly afford the price of admission to the Parallel Worlds. Some of the street performers hoped to parlay virtual popularity into the real world. Street performances on the virtual Boardwalk weren't as strictly regulated as in the non-digital world. Much easier to purchase a pass here.

  Identifying the Golden Surfer earned fifteen hours' worth of the power to walk on water plus twenty thousand OD. Twenty thousand Omnidollars was enough to fly to the virtual Caribbean or Hawaii and spend two weeks in a luxury hotel – or purchase a decent no-frills virtual car. If you were looking to purchase something in the Real, OD were traded in the real world for real things. Currently, OD was trading at just under three to the dollar.

  Hard to say where walking on water might come in handy. Maybe there'd be some demand for a virtual messiah on some world?

  Alex strolled down the Boardwalk as if on the way to somewhere, appearing uninterested in the surroundings, while all around him people peered into store windows or gawked at passersby. One dude asked if Alex would care for a drink or maybe getting together in a more intimate setting. The avatar was tall, young, and handsome, as nearly all of them were, but his "tells" suggested middle-aged or older. "Not my type," Alex said, and the man withdrew.

  Growing up in the Parallel Cities and other simworlds, Alex spotted tells in avatars as easily as breathing. They way they carried themselves and spoke, their clothing or what caught their interest, usually revealed their age, sex, and even their culture and socioeconomics. The majority were tourists who might have an interest in winning a prize if they tripped over it but otherwise were just there to soak in the atmosphere. Nothing like summer sunshine and beach breezes for someone freezing their ass off in Fargo, North Dakota.

  Another sizable group consisted of what Alex referred to as "amateurs": individuals who spent an odd hour or two a week in half-assed attempts to win prizes. Most of them were young, students or marginally employed, looking for a few extra bucks. They were the people peering a bit too intently at everyone and everything around them. Might as well be wearing a sign: "Amateur Gamer Here." The real competition was the ones you didn’t see. Or, more rarely, the ones who didn't bother to hide. Alex played it both ways, but generally preferred discretion.

  So Alex walked on, pretending to see nothing while seeing it all. Ahead, beachcombers pretended to be casual strollers but could not stop compulsive glances at the ocean, where they hoped to spot the Golden Surfer.

  The Gods of the Omniverse were usually subtler than that. Programmers liked to believe they were clever and funny. Attempts at clever irony were their mainstay. But since AlphaOmega – the AI the Founders had launched into the Omniverse just over a year ago – the ratio of lame to legitimately inspired had risen dramatically in favor of legitimately inspired. Especially with the high-end prizes. But dorky still predominated on the lower levels.

  Alex spotted a blond dude wearing a cap, dark sunglasses, and a Hawaiian T-shirt, rolling along on a skateboard. He had an old Walkman stereo tucked under one arm issuing faint strains of the Beach Boys' Surfin' U.S.A. The skateboard was what Alex would've called a pukish shade of yellow more than the called-for "golden," but it was close enough.

  Alex stepped into the path of the skateboard. The skateboarder made a move to go around, but Alex blocked his path again. The man stopped, his smile quizzical. After a moment, he lowered his dark sunglasses. Alex knew the face: the Beach Boys' Mike Love in his early twenties.

  "Well, you're a golden oldie, that's for sure," said Alex. "And your skateboard could be mistaken for gold if you're color-impaired. So I'm going to say you're the Golden Surfer."

  Mike Love smiled. With a subvocal command, Alex accessed her Omni Account and watched figures fill the air beside the Beach Boy's head: 20,000 OD on the uppermost ledger line, followed by: Award. Power Level 3. Walk on Water: 20 hrs. Ka-ching! Alex severed access and the numbers vanished.

  A pair of nubile young girls sashayed past. Mike Love grinned.

  "Don't you wish?" he asked with a wink.

  "What?"

  "They all could be California girls?"

  Alex chuckled. Not bad.

  A street performer who'd been mindlessly tinkling away on a portable keyboard suddenly struck up the classic song's organ introduction. A longhaired blond dude man emerged from a nearby music store carrying an electric guitar. A brown-haired guy standing nearby scooped a guitar out of his guitar case.

  By the time Mike Love started into the first verse, people had stopped what they were doing and stood watching, open-mouthed. When the other Beach Boys joined in on the first chorus, a crowd of onlookers had gathered. Some were covering their mouths, others clapping and tapping their feet. A few idiots even tried to sing along. A few stood there scowling at Alex with scarcely suppressed envy.

  A Beach Boys flash mob. Alex grinned. Pretty awesome. Had to hand it to the Gamemasters and/or Mr. Alpha Fucking Omega.

  ALEX MILLS emerged from the Ares Full Immersion Recreation Module. Stepping out of that powerful body was one of the most jarring parts of Alex's existence.

  The single most jarring part was something Alex put off for as long as possible, but it had to happen: that first moment of facing the mirror in the bathroom. Gone were the broad, muscular shoulders, defined pecks, rock-hard six-pack, the piercing green eyes, the sculpted jaw, and careless tousles of glorious sun-bleached blond hair. In their place stood a twenty-something slim female with skinny shoulders, flattish breasts, dyed blond hair, and a squirrely, scowling little face with squinty blue-grey eyes.

  Alexandra "Alex" Mills shuddered.

  In the kitchen, a breakfast of organic fruit and oatmeal – with a tasty side dish of kale salad – awaited her. Her parents had converted to a plant-based, "whole food" and "all-natural" diet years back when they'd discovered that Alex suffered from a rare, inherited degenerative disease called Friedreich's ataxia.

  Some days she thought she would happily give up her life for a teeming bowl of Fruit Loops with real milk (dairy being part of the Evil Food Axis that included anything animal-related or processed).

  Her mom came in from the backyard shedding garden gloves.

  "How are you feeling this morning, hon?"

  "Great," said Alex.

  "Good. You slept well?"

  "Yes."

  "You didn't stay up late in the 'Verse?"

&
nbsp; "No."

  Cindy Mills poured them both a hot cup of raw cacao. They sat across from each other at the table, Alex facing out on the backyard. It was late-April and the garden was in full bloom. The varicolored roses were rioting.

  "When's your first class today?" Cindy asked.

  "In an hour."

  "Brandon's picking you up?"

  "Yeah. Should be here soon."

  Alex picked at her spinach and fruit and drank her chocolate, sweetened, she guessed, by approximately the honey produced by one bee.

  "If I asked you a question," her mom said, "would you give me an honest answer?"

  "If I answered you dishonestly, would you ask me the question?"

  Her mom gave her a weary smile. "I know this is rather a taboo subject with you, Alex, but I've been curious about how much time, on average, you're spending in the Omniverse."

  Alex sipped her cup with exaggerated slowness, poker-faced.

  "The reason I'm wondering is that with your energy reserves..." Her mom paused to clear her throat. "It's challenging enough to attend classes and study and do homework without distractions. If you're exhausting yourself online..."

  "I might not graduate summa cum laude?"

  "You might not graduate at all." Cindy bit her lower lip and frowned as if she hadn't intended to say that.

  "So what if I didn't graduate, Mom? Would the world end? It's not as if I'll have more than a few years to utilize my degree anyway, and most of them will be spent in a wheelchair."

  Alex took no pleasure in seeing the riptide of pain cross her mom's face.

  "You don't know how many years you have left, Alex," she said. "It could be much longer than you expect."

  Maybe if by some ridiculously improbable miracle my Omniverse life preservation policy actually pays off. For a mere 6K a year, OmniCorp promised to cyronically preserve your body until resurrection was possible. She'd never told her mom about that. She couldn't bear the pitying eyes and the "Honey, I understand but it's such a waste of money!" They weren't exactly rich these days – just making ends meet in their gated community home with her dad's life insurance and her mom's UCJ teacher salary – but it was her money and her choice. Considering her future prospects, an investment in the far-flung seemed almost sensible.