The Goddess Quest

by Lawrence Ambrose

  "Car keys?"

  "I'll get them. Along with a carrying case and cat food. You'll need a litter box and kitty litter and a water bowl –"

  "Okay. Just put whatever shit I need in your car."

  "I should tell you he's an eat until he gets sick kind of cat, not a grazer. If you put a giant pot full of food in front of him he'll eat the whole thing. You need to feed him moderate amounts twice a day."

  "For Christ's sake, I'm about ready to drop you both off at the pound."

  Someone hammered on the door.

  "You okay in there, Don?" a male voice called.

  Alex's rifle snapped up. Don nodded his understanding.

  "Not great but I'll make it, Ralph. Keys are in the truck."

  "Yup. I saw 'em. Well, get well soon, man."

  Soon, the ambulance started up. Alex listened to its engine retreat. A hard look from her sent Don scrambling to gather cat paraphernalia. Alex was starting to feel she'd dodged a bullet in being allergic to cats.

  They carried all the crap out to the garage and crammed it into the back of an older model Toyota Rav4 that looked like a mini-jeep. Returning inside, the cat had vanished.

  "Robert must've been spooked by seeing us move all his stuff," said Don. He scurried around the room, carrying case in hand. "Robert, Robert! You need to come out!"

  Alex rubbed her eyes. Why hadn't she just shot him out in the desert? Then the digital dork was dragging the squalling, hissing cat out from beneath the couch and stuffing him into the carrying case. He bent down over the case, breathing heavily, whispering assurances to his pet.

  Alex scooped up the carrying case, and strode for the car. The cat howled and thrashed around, making the case swing in gravity-defying directions, as if powered by an unbalanced gyroscope.

  "Please don't hurt him! I know it's pathetic, but he's my best friend."

  Alex headed toward the garage door, resisting a sarcastic affirmation of Don's self-assessment.

  "Can you leave me my cell?" he called after her.

  "I'll leave it with the cat."

  After depositing the yowling cat in the back seat, Alex backed out as the garage door rumbled open. Her relief at being free of Don Reynolds was soon stifled by the screeching cat in the backseat – and the realization that she had no idea where she was going or what her next move was.

  She wasn't sure how the police would process what happened at the crime scene. They had her basic information. They knew she'd been there. But they'd need to talk to witnesses to piece it all together. Maybe the witnesses couldn't ID her. But had a police cam captured a shot of her? Best-case scenario, they'd know she'd been there and would want to talk to her.

  Worst case, her handsome face and thick tangled mane of blond hair might soon adorn wanted posters from New Mexico to New York. Damn her ego for making her avatar so unforgettably gorgeous! Now her magnificent blond locks had to go. A scissors and some hair color should do the trick. A greater concern was her lack of cash. She had $350 and change. Her credit card was off-limits now. Perhaps her cell was, too. The Parallel U.S. might lack the Real's ultra-surveillance state, but she was sure they could still trace cells and credit card purchases easily enough. A new identity would be nice, but without money she'd need to settle for "low profile."

  The bigger issue was the Highwayman. The capture and/or elimination of him/her was necessary in order to solve Stage Three. She couldn't count on more GM clues. She might need to track him down with sheer brainpower. Said brain currently under siege by a yowling cat.

  "Jesus Christ!" she snarled back at the cat. "Shut the fuck up!"

  Robert responded by elevating the pitch of his protest. Alex pulled the car over by a vacant field on the outskirts of the city and drew her pistol. She pointed it straight at the cat's hissing face.

  "I don't care what I promised," she said. "If you don't shut up I'm going to put a bullet in your head."

  Bizarrely, or miraculously, the cat's earsplitting howl drifted down to a merely annoying low growl. Alex holstered her pistol.

  "Thanks," she said. "Not generally a good idea to screech at the hand that can kill you."

  Alex circled back toward the city despite the danger. Her best guess was that she had a minimum of an hour and a maximum of a day before the cops got serious about questioning her, depending on witnesses and possible police video. Time to buy some stuff and withdraw some ATM cash. She might never get a better chance at cash for the remainder of the game. They'd trace her card to the ATMs, but that wouldn’t provide any clues about where she was going.

  She stopped at a Sally Beauty for scissors and hair color. She glanced around inside of the car, snatching up a baseball cap. She tucked Dionysus's mop under the cap, slipped on sunglasses from the glove compartment.

  No problems locating the items inside Sally's Beauty. Spotting an ATM logo on a Rexall store window just down the street, she headed there and withdrew the full amount permitted – $1500. A little further down the street was a bank with an ATM outside. She was pushing it a little, but she had to look to the future. You couldn't live and travel in the Verse without cash any better than you could in the Real.

  The bank ATM added another $1200 to her personal account. That was it. Time to leave. If she needed more money later, she'd find a way.

  Alex headed north on 25, stopping at the first rest area and claiming a "family restroom" to perform her makeover. She'd been cutting her hair for years, but never hair as luxuriant and wavy as her avatar's. She felt half-criminal chopping her mane down to a spiky semi-military cut, carefully dropping the freed strands into a garbage can. Next was the dark brown dye, which she applied with her gloved fingers. During the twenty minutes she waited for the color to set, a couple of people tried the door, but moved on without complaint.

  Alex battled a bit of self-recrimination as she mulled over her next move. She'd had the Highwayman in her sights. She could've killed the faux hitchhiker and claimed the prize, but instead had practiced restraint and caution – which had led to killing a slew of cops instead.

  Worse, she was getting tired and needed a real-world potty and nutrition break, but if she checked out now she might find her avatar in chains when she returned. The next few hours were critical and required her personal touch.

  She washed out the color mix and regarded herself in the mirror. Short, spunky brown fur had replaced her gorgeous golden mane. But the military cut made Dionysus's strong jaw line and intense green eyes stand out even more. He looked like the classic female romance novel fantasy cover: overtly sensuous but tough as hell. She felt a touch of "heteronormative" buzz staring at him.

  Alex returned to the car and its sullen cargo.

  "Yuurrrooowl..?"

  The tabby cat's yowl seemed to end on a questioning note.

  "Like my new look, huh?"

  The cat hissed. She rolled back onto the freeway, heading north. How to find the Highwayman? It hit her that she was no longer just trying to second-guess the Gamemasters; now, more importantly, she had to guess the actions of a real person, a free agent in the game. She had to understand, or attempt to understand, his/her psychology. Make that pscyhopathy. Good luck with that.

  She decided, first off, to think of the Highwayman as male. Just not that many female serial killers. Politically correct or no, a guy was vastly more likely to be into this sick shit. A young, attractive female avatar would be the way to go. Even though every avatar knew appearances meant next to nothing here, most people couldn't help themselves. Sweet young vulnerable thing looking for a ride? Heck, yeah!

  On the other hand, "Henna" had been damn convincing as a girl. Alex thought back on her nuances – the way she talked, body language, expressions. It seemed to her that she'd nailed them. A guy, not to mention a fucking psychopath, would have to be fucking clever to pull that off.

  Also, the passengers had been shot. Henna had to have been packing. So why hadn't she drawn down on her? Alex's avatar looked too fearsome? Hell, just pull o
ut her gun and pop the nosy bastard in the head. The blasting storm with its lightning and thunder would've covered the sound. Take the van, turn it around, and ride out of there. Kill two birds with one bullet: get a nice ride/escape and, more importantly, take out the guy who was pursuing her – for the mandatory 48-hour period if not indefinitely.

  It seemed to Alex that a guy, even a homicidal sociopath guy, would've found that option nearly irresistible. But a girl...Alex could see how going head to head with a dude who looked like Dionysus might give her pause. Alex had no doubt she'd been giving off some serious "I'm ready, bring it on" vibes.

  Why not avoid the risk of a violent struggle and take out her pursuer in a more subtle and thorough way? Henna would've noticed that Dionysus couldn't see over the seats to the rear cargo floor in the rearview mirror. Just leave the backpack and frame him.

  But whether or not the psycho was female or male, Alex had some good intelligence into Henna's psyche. Henna was a clever, manipulative bitch, and strategically flexible. The good news was that Reality One imposed geographic limitations on an avatar's travel options. Henna couldn't just check out and check in somewhere else in a different avatar. Whether she checked out or stayed, she'd need to continue her travels from her last location. That gave Alex some hope that she wasn't too far from here and that Alex could still pick up her scent.

  About one hundred miles from Santa Fe, Alex pulled into a Quality Inn motel and paid cash for a room. It was a calculated risk, but she needed to take a break, learn what the virtual news was saying, and think out her next move.

  Chapter 10

  AFTER A LATE LUNCH and a leisurely Vitamin D3-acquisition walk in the backyard, Alex settled down under the shaded back patio with her laptop and went to work. Brandon showed up packing his own tablet a few minutes during her initial Omniverse search for news of the executed family and her gun-spree. It was, as she expected, the lead story in every Verse newscast site, and Brandon had perused several of the accounts.

  "'A bit of a kerfuffle' my black ass!" he greeted her. "Looks like you went all Quentin Tarantino up in there!"

  "Yeah," said Alex. "But you know me. I always like to use 'kerfuffle' whenever I have the chance. Next time: brouhaha or scuffle."

  Brandon stared at his screen and shook his head. "Man. The good news is no one actually saw you do anything. The only surviving witness was too busy cowering in his car to see anything. Police cam got a flash of your legs leaping over a highway patrol car, but that's about it. The backpack full of body parts they found nearby doesn't connect to your rental van."

  "That was the idea when I tossed it," said Alex.

  "Still, you're a person of interest. And your picture's plastered on every news site." Brandon smiled at her. "On a positive note, you look handsome in your driver's license photo. Not everyone can say that. I know I can't."

  "Thanks." Alex pushed her computer away on the patio table. "Police aside, I don't have a clue where to go looking for the Highwayman."

  "Have you decided if the Highwayman is an avatar or a sim?"

  "I'm leaning toward avatar."

  "Then the GM can't do shit with him...or her. So you know what I'm thinking with my less than your stupendous brain?"

  "Do tell."

  "I'm thinking it could be a sim pretending to be an avatar."

  Alex nodded. It made sense. She'd even had the same fleeting thought. The Gamemasters could easily pull that off and it violated no rules that she knew of.

  "Or they could've assumed control of the sim," she said. "I think that may have already happened with me. A couple of sims showed a lot of intelligence. I'm not as sure as I used to be about telling the difference between them and avatars. Or maybe AO is behind that."

  "Maybe, but I don't see how they can reset a major event like that family massacre regardless," said Brandon. "Rewriting isn't allowed in Reality One. What happened with you and her is part of its history now."

  "I know. The Highwayman wouldn't be able to show up in the same place and hijack the same car again even if he or she was a sim. They could set up a similar event I suppose. Still not adding up."

  Brandon leaned back and lowered the shades over his eyes. "So what's your next move?"

  "Keep my fucking eyes and ears open, I guess."

  ALEX REJOINED her avatar in her motel room that now smelled like a ruptured sewer line was draining into a cesspool of rotting corpses.

  "What the fuck?"

  Alex glanced around in a panic, suspecting an EPA-level toxic spill emergency. The smell almost made her wish the EPA existed in this world. Pushing off the bed, she homed in on the source of the odor: the kitty litter box. She pinched her nose. The smell was not only realistic, it was realistic-amplified – something that happened occasionally when the Gamemasters got too enthusiastic with their simulations.

  "Mute smell," Alex commanded her AFIRM.

  The stench vanished. The air was as flavorless and empty as a blank piece of paper. It had been a while since she'd turned off odor and it was more disturbing than she remembered. But it beat the alternative.

  Alex looked around the room. "Where are you?"

  No movement, no sound, not even a tremor of air. Alex grabbed the remote from the night table and turned on the TV, settling on a local news channel.

  "Authorities are still piecing together the tragedy that occurred on Highway 30 just south of Santa Clara Pueblo earlier this afternoon," a Hispanic woman wearing a blond wig announced. "Five individuals died: Valerie and Jacob Simpson and their three children, all shot at close range by a high-powered pistol. Officials speculate that this occurred while their vehicle was in motion at high speed, explaining why it rolled over off the road. Authorities speculate that the Simpsons picked up a hitchhiker, possibly the serial killer known as the Highwayman. Police and the FBI are seeking to question a man, Alex A. Milner of Jefferson, California, who was stopped at a checkpoint near the crashed vehicle and who left the scene of the crime. The authorities ask anyone who has seen this man to call the number appearing with his driver's license photograph here..."

  Dionysus's face with his cheeky smile filled the screen. A red phone number gleamed iridescently under his chin.

  "The Simpsons were traveling to Colorado Springs to visit Jacob Simpson's father, Mack Simpson..."

  The scene shifted from the studio to a distraught older man on the front steps of an adobe-style home.

  "They were originally planning on traveling up Highway 25," he lamented, pausing to rein in his emotions, dabbing at his eyes. "That would've avoided harm on that route..."

  Alex sat up a bit straighter in the chair by the bed.

  "Most of the Highwayman's victims have been on major highways," the newswoman continued back in the studio. "But police caution against picking up anyone anywhere at this time. With all respect for Mack Simpson and the loss he's suffered, you may find harm on a major highway such as North 25 just as easily as anywhere else..."

  Harm. It struck Alex as a funny word-choice. Find Harm on...North 25.. The gods of the game had surely just spoken to her.

  Alex pushed out of her chair. Time to go. Now where the hell was that fucking psychotic cat? As she looked under the bed and in the small closet and bathroom, she considered paying for another two days and leaving the damn thing behind with enough food and water for that time. She'd call Don Reynolds a day or two down the road to let him know where his precious demented feline was. But then she remembered him saying that he'd eat until he became sick. Bloody hell.

  She dragged all his stuff except the carrying case out to the car. She'd happily renege on her promise, but couldn't be sure that wouldn't hurt her game. Back in the motel room, she called the cat, tapping the carrying case. She heard a slight rustling from the front of the bed. Peering behind the front board, she spotted the tabby cretin gathered in a ball on the board's outcropping, glaring up at her with profound malevolence.

  "I could leave you with water but no food," said Alex. "Yo
u might not like it, but you've got plenty of fat. You'd survive. Your choice."

  Robert let out a low snarl.

  "Fine. Enjoy your solo stay in your deluxe motel room."

  Alex headed back to the car. The instant she opened the door, the damn cat raced past her legs and fled down the sidewalk and out of sight around the building. Alex snorted with disgust. Whoever programmed must hate cats. Screw the little piece of virtual shit – and the Gamemasters if they expected her to waste time tracking it down.

  She retrieved the carrying case – when Don picked up his car he'd have his cat paraphernalia that at least – and dropped off her motel key. She was opening the car door when Robert appeared out of nowhere, scrambling into the passenger front seat, where it sat with an annoyed expression as if to say: "Can we get going already? What's the holdup?"

  "All right," Alex mumbled, starting the car, unsure whether to feel relief or disappointment along with her surprise. Maybe the cat just hated the carrying case?

  So Harmon was on 25 headed north, if the news talking head could be trusted as the true prophet of the Gamemasters. Not much else to do but drive north. She turned on the car's stereo. "Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive –" Alex tapped mute. The Bee Gees. Why wasn't she surprised Don liked that crap? She tapped the forward button. "Mamma mia, here I go again. My my, how can I resist you?" ABBA. Alex made a gagging sound and pressed forward. "You held me down, but I got up (hey!). Already brushing off the dust-" Katy Perry. In quick succession: Lady Gaga, the Carpenters, Barry Manilow, Peter Frampton –

  Alex slapped the stereo off hard enough to warp part of the box inward. Oops. Forgot about my enhanced strength. The cat, apparently agreeing with her taste, cut short an incipient yowl when the music stopped.

  "Man," she groaned. "Your owner's even more of a pussy than you are."

  Alex drove north three miles over the seventy speed limit looking out for hitchhikers and highway patrol. After fifty miles or so, Robert started scratching on the passenger-side door. The scratching gradually intensified until emphasized by by an abrasive cry. Assuming he wanted to relieve himself, Alex exited into a rest area. She pulled the litter box from the trunk, which she assumed the cat would prefer, but when she opened the door, the cat shot out past the litter box as if it were the last place in the world he'd ever consider stopping.