The Goddess Quest

by Lawrence Ambrose

  Athena emerged from the restaurant, a frosty mug of root beer in hand. Every muscle in Alex's body tensed. Athena was going for it. One sip and she could win it all. Or be eliminated.

  Her bravado didn't go unnoticed. A number of the solitary people stared at her. They couldn't help themselves. Would they stop her? How many of them even had that power? Power awards required solving the Stages, and Alex was almost certain none of them had made it past Stage Two.

  Athena was edging her way out through the crowd, clutching the root beer mug with both hands, her eyes shifting from her precious cargo to the nearest loners, whom she'd spotted just as Alex had. Would someone make a move? Alex wasn't prepared to take that chance. No way was she letting her just waltz in and steal the prize right out from under her.

  Alex willed a dude sitting at a table to stick out his leg in Athena's path. She hit the leg in full stride and lost her footing. Her free hand shot out, stopping her fall a foot off the ground. The contents of the mug, however, sloshed out onto the cement. The single blob of vanilla ice cream spread into a melting white pool.

  Athena sprang to her feet and spun on her tripper. The dude raised his hands apologetically.

  "Sorry," he said, loudly enough for Alex to hear him fifteen feet away. "I didn't mean to trip you –"

  Athena hauled him out of his chair and readied a punch. The boy's face locked between disbelief and protest – shading swiftly into anger.

  "Hey, I said it was an accident! Jesus, bitch, get your fucking hands off –"

  Famous last words as Athena's fist crashed into the dork's face. Breaking cartilage and bone crackled through the sudden silence. Athena tossed his limp body onto his former table, knocking it over and its occupants backward out of their chairs.

  A frightened murmur rushed in to displace the silence. Cell phones shot up to film Athena and possible follow-up carnage. A few were speaking into their cells, probably calling the police. Athena stood like a bull in a china shop that had just sprouted matadors. Possible enemies everywhere. The loner-competitors had stopped eating and melted into the crowd – perhaps for protective cover or to plot an ambush.

  Jesus, what a hothead amateur move, Alex thought. She'd just painted a bright red bull's eye on her chest by broadcasting her augmented strength. She'd got her 3x strength award for sure, catching her fall like that with one arm and hauling the dude off his chair with one hand. One reason why she never had a chance in hell to win this.

  "Whoa, I think she might've just killed that guy!" Taylor half-whispered. "She must be an augment. Someone should call the police."

  "I think that's already happening," said his friend.

  Athena had placed herself in a supremely awkward position. Not only were all her competitors now gunning for her, the local gendarmes would soon be on her case. Or worse. If someone suggested she was an augment, DARE could show up. Thanks a lot, Athena. Just as fucking impulsive as the head-case goddess herself.

  Meanwhile, they'd moved to within two people of the order booth. Nineteen beverage choices, one of them life-changing, confronted Alex. Still no hidden messages detected. Impossible to believe it would come down to gut instinct – one ridiculous throw of the dice.

  Alex pushed her brain into overdrive. The clue had to be there. Those oh-so-clever programmers would never leave such a fateful decision to chance. But where the hell was it?

  A pair of police cars rolled up, blinking and beeping. Athena sprang away, vanishing in the shadows around the drive-in. Four cops jumped out. One pair sprinted after her – the other two ran off around the other side of the building. Good fucking luck with that, Alex thought. They might as well try running down a gazelle. But Athena would be back, likely in some hastily improvised disguise. This was for all the treasure in the kingdom. The Iron Throne. No reason to hold back now.

  One young couple now stood between Alex and the most critical decision of her life. They were glancing over their shoulders, too concerned with the cop cars and previous mayhem to focus on their order. Alex was about to give them a not-so-gentle nudge aside when their eyes went wide with horror at something behind Alex and her new friends.

  An armored vehicle complete with a machine gun turret on top smashed through a pair of parked cars on the curb and bounced up on the drive-in's patio. Its rear doors flew open and five helmeted individuals in full combat regalia stormed out with assault rifles. The crowd scattered, Alex and her companions with them. They followed a line of fleeing customers around the building, encountering the cops who'd gone after Athena.

  "What's going on?" one of them demanded.

  "Men with guns!" A girl paused to point frantically toward the front of the drive-in. "They drove up in some kind of tank!"

  While the cops spoke into their mobile phones, Alex slowed, waving Taylor and Ralph on with the crowd.

  "What are you doing, Alex?" Taylor cried.

  "Just got some business to take care of."

  "Please, don't be a hero!"

  Alex laughed, backing toward a rear door. "Not much chance of that. Don't worry. I'll be fine."

  They continued on, Taylor's boyfriend dragging him along. Two separate groups of young men – competitors, she assumed – rounded the restaurant from opposite sides and converged on him, four of them drawing handguns.

  "Dionysus!" one of them growled.

  "Gentlemen," said Alex. She directed the handguns away from her so the two groups were aiming at each other.

  "Drop it!" one of them shouted.

  "I'm not –"

  Alex backed through the steel door as the avatars opened fire on each other. Shots continued to ring out after she closed the door and warmed its lock mechanism inward. Employees rushed through the kitchen toward him.

  "Sorry," she said. "The exit's blocked. I suggest you stay here and keep low. These people aren't interested in you."

  Up front, the uniformed men with rifles had occupied the serving area. One had set his weapon and helmet aside and was filling a frosty mug from the root beer dispenser. The four other gunmen turned their guns on Alex when she entered. She popped them hard between the eyes in quick succession. One got off a shot before dropping, striking Alex in the chest.

  The bullet, having penetrated her shirts, flattened against her skin, burning like a wasp's sting.

  "Ouch?"

  The fifth individual started to reach for his rifle – but on second thought grabbed for the half-full root beer mug instead. Alex TKed his temple and he flopped headfirst into the dispenser machine, knocking the mug on the floor.

  "Duck!" a woman's voice shouted.

  Alex dropped to the floor an instant before machine gun fire burst the windows and raked the machines where she'd been. The dispensers pissed organic drinks and carbonated water on her. Strangely, the root beer mug lying on the floor by her head still had a gulp or two of drink in it. She snatched it with both hands and drew it toward her mouth.

  The mug exploded in her hands. Glass shards blasted into her face and eyes. The machine gun? She wiped the debris from her eyes. Athena had dropped on one knee, sipping from a glass with one hand, a pistol dangling from her other.

  "Sorry," she said.

  She finished off the drink and slapped it down on the floor. Alex barely resisted the impulse to convert her into a flathead Native American. Of course, if it was Ambrosia, Athena would be beyond the reach of such trivial powers. And if it wasn't the nectar of the gods, Athena was no longer a contestant.

  "Oh, shit." Athena was peering at the cup. "No. No way. No goddamn way!"

  Alex guessed she was seeing a private message in the words on the cup. "What does it say?"

  "I'm disqualified!" She faced her with pleading eyes. "Because I helped you! Do you fucking believe it?"

  Alex had to laugh. "You can't say I didn't warn you."

  "You better goddamn well win this, D."

  "It's in the bag, believe me, babe."

  "It was a helluva ride – mostly on your fucking genius c
oattails, I admit." She started to rise. "Catch you later."

  "See you on the other side."

  Her gaze grew vacuous as she stood up. Athena had left the building. Fifty-caliber rounds tore through the service windows, whipping her around, her arms flapping like a puppet's. Her avatar flopped, dead meat, on the floor.

  Alex raised her TK shield, taking a moment to quell the anger surging in her – to remind herself that Athena was fine.

  She edged across the floor, reaching up to switch off the light. The fifty wasn't much of a threat in here, but maybe the asshole had a rocket launcher or something onboard. Dude had certainly come armed to the gills. Where he'd found the weapons and the willing sims was another question.

  Alex rose behind the counter in one dark corner of the room and focused on the machine gun turret, squeezing the barrel closed in her mind. She walked out of the kitchen into the restaurant and through the front doors. A few bodies, including the four police officers, lay sprawled on the front patio. Otherwise, the outside square was deserted. The machine gun turret cranked, turning to point at her. Someone was about to receive an unpleasant surprise.

  A sharp clack – and then the metallic, muted blast of a powerful firecracker trapped inside a tin can. Fire flared from within the machine gun turret, followed by a startled shriek of pain. Alex smiled.

  A cavalcade of police cars roared up, sirens screeching. In the distance, the now-familiar whump-whump of approaching helicopters shook the night air. DARE, she assumed, on the job as alway. Alex retreated into the building, fusing the front doors shut behind her. She had no other place to be. A few days remained in the contest, but the drive-in would be out of commission for the foreseeable future. It was now or never.

  The contents of the dispenser machines spread in shallow purple-red-green pools across the service area floor. She could scoop up some and drink it, but she suspected Ambrosia was a distinct drink, not a mélange. Still, she'd go for it if nothing better suggested itself.

  Back in the kitchen, the seven workers still huddled behind the food assembly stations. Alex opened the two oversized stainless steel refrigerators. Nothing but ingredients as far as she could see.

  "Are there any drinks back here? I mean, drinks fully made."

  "What kind of drinks?" a young woman asked.

  "Any drink you serve here."

  The employees traded puzzled looks.

  "Do you want one?" the same woman asked. "We could make it."

  Sounded like a plan. But which one?

  "If you had to describe one of your drinks as fit for a god," Alex said, "which one would it be?"

  They consulted with each other – most of it consisting of shrugs, shaking heads, and uncertain frowns.

  "The Wintergreen Root Beer Float?"

  "The Fusion Strawberry shake?"

  "The Sweet Hemlock?"

  Alex stared at the last speaker. "Hemlock? What kind of restaurant would offer..."

  The drink that killed Socrates. Sentenced to drink because of his refusal to confirm the existence of the gods. A drink to the gods...

  "Jesus," Alex whispered. She raised her voice. "Make that drink. Sweet Hemlock."

  "It's really not all that sweet –"

  "Make me the goddamn drink."

  The employees scrambled from around the food stations to the twin refrigerators. Glass bottles filled with varicolored liquids lined up on the table under Alex's hard gaze. An elbow started one tipping over, but Alex froze it telekinetically and righted it.

  "Take it slow," she said. "One step at a time. No fumbling."

  They slowed down. One employee, an older woman, began carefully pouring the ingredients into a large Green Mac flask.

  "What are in those bottles?" Alex asked. "I mean the exact ingredients and proportions?"

  "Each bottle has a half-cup of juiced berries – blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, blackberries, apples, oranges – blended into six ounces of purified soda water. The Sweet Hemlock uses a quarter-cup each of beet juice, blackberries, and oranges. A tablespoon of organic coconut sugar, plus four drops of cinnamon essential oil."

  Sounded like something her mom might force on her. "Are the berries, beet juice, and blackberries organic?"

  "I think so. That's kind of Mac's thing."

  "And then it's stirred?"

  "Yes. Plus a small scoop of ice is added."

  She'd just finished pouring when another familiar female voice, amplified by a megaphone or speakers, shattered the silence:

  "Alex Milner! This is Agent Tatiya Wilson! Please permit the employees to leave as a sign of goodwill. Then we can begin negotiations."

  Just in time, Alex thought. And making her usual misinterpretations.

  "Keep working," she said sternly to the older woman. There was time. Neither DARE nor the cops would pull any stunts that would endanger the employees.

  That reassuring thought had scarcely formed when a series of champagne-cork popping sounds carried in from outside the restaurant. Alex jogged to the front service window. A heavy white mist, sparkling under the street lamps, was settling in over the area to a chorus of coughing. Coughing which transitioned swiftly into violent retching.

  Someone just launched a gas attack. No way was it DARE or any law enforcement agency.

  The mist crept toward the drive-in like some huge, fluffy white amoeba. Alex backed into the kitchen, where the workers were hesitating again.

  "Keep going, damn it!" she snarled.

  More popping sounds, this time closer. A tinkling from the front windows – and two canisters landed inside, one spinning across the floor into the kitchen. Alex blew it back into the service area as it and the canister in the eating section exploded. She jumped in front of the workers, projecting a TK field, pushing the white gas toward the entrance.

  One of the employees coughed. Then another. Too late. The older woman grabbed her throat, bracing herself on the food table. Alex looked feverishly around, her search stopping on the wall and ceiling vents. Talk about not thinking three-dimensionally! But it had happened too damn fast –

  The workers began slumping to the floor. No, no, no, goddammit! Alex dropped beside the oldest worker, peering into her glazing eyes.

  "Is the drink complete?" she asked. "Did you finish it?"

  The woman opened her mouth. White foam bubbled out. Alex suddenly realized she was feeling woozy herself. The gas challenging her Grade 5 immunity?

  "It needs..." One of the employees, a young, freckled redhead dude who looked like a high school kid, was still on his knees, lifting one shivering finger at an ingredient bottle. "Tablespoon...molasses..."

  "That's all?"

  The boy nodded and slumped flat on his face. Alex stood up – too suddenly, it seemed, as the room performed a slow, circling dance around her. She steadied herself. Why the boy chose to tell her, Alex would never know, but she wasn't going to let his brave if absurd sacrifice go to waste. She grasped the bottle of molasses. Grade 5 don't fail me now.

  Where the hell was a tablespoon? My kingdom for a tablespoon. She was "altered," no question. The gas was taking its toll. She gritted her teeth and reined in her skittering thoughts. A tablespoon was roughly equivalent to the cap on the molasses bottle. Roughly. Too bad she'd never studied her Betsy Crocker. Betty Crocker. What law of identity would apply? Would two-thirds of a tablespoon constitute a different identity? But surely all identity had some roughness...? Don't call me Shirley...

  Alex unscrewed the cap with shaking fingers and tipped the bottle. Most of it ended up on the table, but the cap was full. She spilled it into the tall green flask. A pinch from the molasses on the table to make the full tablespoon? She dabbed a finger into the dark ooze by the bottle and held it over the flask, watch two drops plummet into the deep burgundy liquid.

  Watching the drop dissolve, Alex felt overcome by a strange, infinite sadness. The sadness claimed her for several moments until her logical mind caught up. It was the question of identity. A fr
action off in the ingredients might be okay. But whatever had laid low the employees – was battering her brain and body right now – was in the air and on objects, including her skin, the glass, and the drink itself. Any normal person drinking this now would die in convulsions. It had actually become a kind of hemlock, a poisonous drink, and not the Ambrosia she'd come so close to tasting.

  Alex withdrew her hand and slumped against the table. Was there a way past this? Probably. But she couldn't see it with her brain circling the drain. And she bet the geniuses who'd launched those canisters hadn't seen it, either.

  Speaking of the devil, as Alex slumped to the floor, two people in Hasmat-type suits and gas masks tromped into the kitchen. Had they figured out what the drink had become?

  Alex made a feeble reach for the glass, clawing at the table in faux-desperation before falling back with an anguished grunt. The triumphant chuckle behind one of the gas masks declared that her assailants had bought her act.

  "Please..." Alex extended her right hand piteously toward the flask. "Just give me one drink, whoever you are."

  The masked man chuckled again. "It almost pains me to see the great Dionysus35567 reduced to such a state."

  "Who are you?"

  "An admirer. I'll tell you more, but first I need to slack my thirst." He tapped a red button on his wrist. "Auto-injector. My second dose of atropine-3, the antidote to the sarin-3 gas my partner and I just unleashed. S3, by the way, was developed by DARPA specifically for neutralizing augments' powers. Turns out it's rather effective on awarded powers as well." He checked a bracelet gauge on his wrist. "That should do it."

  He removed his mask. Taylor White grinned down at him. Then he reached over and downed the entire concoction in the green flask in three long swallows. He slapped it down on the table, a purplish mustache framing his grin.

  "You've got to fucking be kidding me," said Alex.

  "Yeah, I know. Must be quite a shock, eh?"

  "How is this even possible? How could you know I'd be on that bus?"

  "You're a puzzle-solver. I'm a people-solver. Different skill-sets, but they both get the job done. Outside this game, I've worked for over ten years as a high-level agent in DARE. Here, no one can match its spy and intelligence capabilities. It's primo – close to the security-spy apparatus in the actual U.S. Just doesn't shove it in people's faces as they do in the Real. Long story short, I had a tracker implanted in you when you were in custody."