The Goddess Quest

by Lawrence Ambrose

  Alex stopped at a tall, electronically operated gate on a heavily wooded rural property several miles north of Sacramento. A large sign read: PRIVATE PROPERTY. TRESPASSERS WILL BE VIOLATED. Smaller signs dotted the nine-foot fence leading away from the gate. The closest one read: TRESPASSERS BEWARE: WE SHOOT FIRST, ASK QUESTIONS LATER.

  Linda Days drove up in a jeep. She was tall, blond, sun-bronzed, and buxom. Early thirties. The size and musculature of her arms and legs suggested intimate familiarity with a gym. A large pistol hung in a holster on her right hip, a large knife on the other. An assault rifle attached to a roll bar within easy reach behind her. Girl takes her gun-toting responsibilities seriously. She studied Alex from behind aviator sunglasses.

  "Alex?" she asked.

  "That's me."

  "Just a sec."

  She palmed a remote and the gate swung outward. Linda patted the seat beside her. Up close, Alex took further note of her features. She was hot, verging on smoking. If Alex had encountered her as Dionysus she would totally want to fuck her, despite her broad, somewhat manly shoulders. As it was, she was a bit intimidating. She looked like she could break Alex's spine with one half-hearted bear hug.

  They rolled up to a log house that was half-buried in a hill. Chickens scampered across the threadbare front yard. A red barn towered off to one side of the house where a couple of cows wandered somnambulistically within a fenced pasture. A giant Rottweiler stirred on the front steps, regarding Alex with flinty dark brown eyes. Alex didn't even see the wolf-like dog – possibly an actual wolf – until it materialized on the driver's side, a bloody rabbit hanging in its mouth.

  "Hold that thought, Mortimer," Linda chuckled. "I'll skin her later."

  Though Alex had seen violent death up close virtually, the simulations never quite captured the raw, primeval smell of blood and guts. She inhaled a short, half-choking breath and turned away.

  "Want to come inside, have something to drink while we talk?"

  "Uh..." Alex cleared her throat. "Do you have a gun range?"

  "Does a bear shit in the woods? Want to see it?"

  "If you don't mind."

  "Sure. No problem."

  They circled the house and rolled out to a shelter facing out on a variety of targets, many of them human-shaped, at varying distances. A dozen rifles and handguns hung in racks on the shelter's rear wall, all of them without clips. Alex recognized most of them. She'd spent a lot of time on virtual gun ranges. This could be interesting – assuming she could persuade Linda Days to play along.

  "Nice," said Alex. "I imagine you're pretty skilled with all these."

  "I like to think so. It's like anything else. You gotta put in the practice time."

  "That's what I was hoping to do today."

  "You were?" Linda cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "You didn't mention anything about that."

  "No. I thought I'd wait to talk to you about it person."

  "You have any familiarity with firearms?"

  "Not in real life."

  "Real life?" A hint of scorn crimped a corner of her smile.

  "I've practiced a lot virtually. I know it sounds strange, but the simulations are pretty damn accurate."

  "You wouldn't know that until you've actually fired a real gun, though, would you?"

  "Good point."

  "I think you should tell me exactly what you have in mind."

  "Okay." Alex didn't want to admit it, but the woman's no-nonsense cold blue eyes, focused on her as if measuring a kill shot, sent a chill through her. Not an entirely unpleasant chill, though. "I'd like to purchase a weapon from you and some training to go with it."

  "I'm not a gun store."

  "But you do sell weapons at gun shows."

  "On occasion. But I'm not licensed to do that here."

  "From what I've read, getting a license to sell guns in California isn't easy."

  "About as easy and fun as having sex with the wrong end of a boar."

  "The tusked end?"

  A cool smile flickered on the woman's full lips.

  "I was hoping we could get around all those pesky legalities," said Alex.

  "I thought you wanted to make a donation to the cause."

  "I do. Especially to the cause of my staying alive."

  "Someone's threatening you?"

  "You could say that."

  Linda folded her muscular forearms and stared at her. "Why did you choose me?"

  "Because of what you believe. And I don't think someone on the street would be willing to furnish training."

  "More likely to furnish a rip-off or some raping." The woman continued to study her. "Are you a cop?"

  "Nope."

  "Why don't you state that clearly for me."

  "I am not a cop."

  "You don't look like one. But these days, you never can tell." She paused. "Who's threatening you?"

  "A sociopath. I'm fairly sure she's a murderer. I stumbled upon some incriminating evidence about her, and she just wrote me an email saying she knows where I live and that my 'time is short.'"

  "Why don't you just report her to the police?"

  "I don't have proof. And I wouldn't trust them to protect me anyway."

  "You shouldn't trust them."

  "Then you'll help me?"

  Linda frowned. "Tell you what. I'm willing to give you some training, but as far as selling you a gun..."

  Alex opened her wallet and unrolled a bundle of cash. Linda's look of surprise turned into a dry smile.

  "A UC student keeps that kind of cash on hand?"

  "I had to stop at the bank. The teller actually had the fucking nerve to ask me what I was withdrawing it for."

  "Welcome to the New World Order. I'm surprised she didn't call in the manager to interrogate you before handing over your own money. Someday soon, you'll need a note from the government to withdraw that much cash."

  "You think it's gotten that bad?"

  "That kind of bad's just getting started, trust me." Linda shook her head. "If I sold you a gun, that could come back to haunt me."

  "You don't have any unregistered guns?"

  "Maybe. But if you were arrested with the gun, they'd ask you where you got it."

  "And I'd say from some black dude named Morpheus."

  A thin smile flickered on and off in the Linda's face. "What kind of gun do you want to train on?"

  "A conceal-carry kind of gun. Do you have an MP 9mm Shield or Glock 19, preferably Gen 4 or 5?"

  Linda's brow shot up. "You've done some research."

  "Yes. And plenty of practice in VR."

  "I'd guess it's not a felony in VR if you're caught with an unregistered, concealed gun."

  "A felony beats being dead."

  Linda snorted. "I can't argue with that. Just out of curiosity, have you considered biting the bullet and applying for a concealed permit? You said you live in Jefferson – that's in Yolo County. I've heard the sheriff's department there isn't as tightass as Sacramento County."

  "I looked into it. There's a three to four week waiting period. I may not have that long."

  Linda gazed out at the targets. A drawn-out mooo carried down to them from the barn.

  "Okay," she said. "Let's do some target practice and see how it goes. As it turns out, I have a Glock 9 Shield, Gen 5. I'm going to charge you $100 an hour, by the way."

  "Sounds fair." Alex had been prepared to pay double that.

  Linda retrieved the Glock from her house. She began by showing Alex all the parts – which she already knew – and then had her fieldstrip it, which Alex also knew how to do. Linda mumbled something about being impressed.

  Firing a real gun was definitely different from VR. The AFIRM had the sound and basic feel, but the recoil had a nastier kick. But then the AFIRM was calibrating that to a much larger and stronger individual. Still, overall, the experience was remarkably similar, and Alex soon solicited more surprised and impressed murmurs from her host as she integrated the two experiences and her accura
cy rapidly improved.

  "You're almost making me a believer in virtual reality training," Linda said with an incredulous shake of her head. "But then, I guess it's not that surprising. Plenty of people, including pilots, use it for training these days."

  The moment of truth arrived after about two hours of practice, when Alex had clearly achieved competent if not marksman status. She fieldstripped and cleaned the gun and set it on a workbench under Linda Days' approving gaze. Then she looked into Linda's cool blue eyes and waited. Her host chuckled softly.

  "You know," she said, "you may be 100 pounds soaking wet, but you're a tough little bitch, aren't you?"

  "Thanks for noticing." Alex gave her a hard smile of her own. "You should see me in my world."

  "I believe it. Fighting is at least ninety-percent mental. Size isn't going to matter much when you're packing." Linda continued to study her for a moment before nodding to herself as if she'd reached a decision. "You and that 9 are a tight fit. Far be it from me to come between a girl and her gun."

  Alex grinned. "Thanks. It's unregistered?"

  "Unregistered, untraceable."

  "Cool." Alex slipped out her wallet. "What do I owe you?"

  "Let's say a twelve hundred for the gun, including a concealed holster and a box of ammo, and two hundred for my time."

  Alex dealt out twenty one hundred dollar bills onto the workbench beside the gun.

  "I was already overcharging you for the pistol," Linda said with a laugh.

  "But maybe undercharging for your time." Alex was eyeing the knife strapped to her side opposite her handgun. "I was thinking one of those as backup would be cool. That's a Gerber, isn't it?"

  "A girl who knows knives. I'm liking you more and more. But I can do you one better." Linda grabbed her belt buckle and started to tug. For a second, Alex thought the woman's liking of her had reached another level – but then Linda pulled a shiny black four-inch knife from her belt. "Now you have two concealed weapons."

  "I want that belt!"

  "It's yours. With my compliments." She waved off Alex reaching again for her wallet. "It only cost me thirty bucks wholesale. For that money, it's a steal. The design is ingenious. The knife quality is not bad."

  She undid the belt and handed it to Alex.

  "You know anything about knife-fighting?" Linda asked.

  "Just what I've learned in VR. I took one six-hour course."

  "From what I just saw, I wouldn't underrate that training. But the basic thing, for an unskilled 'blader,' is to go for major blood vessels." Linda gave her a toothy smile. "One slash of a carotid artery can ruin your whole day."

  ALEX DROVE away from Sacramento feeling totally kickass – something completely unfamiliar to her in the Real. Now messing with her in either world was a truly bad idea. Such a strange but pleasing symmetry.

  At home, she had a light lunch, took a quick run through the adjacent park "locked and loaded," half-hoping the racist punks would show up again. The weight of the gun just behind her left hip was noticeable, but more reassuring than uncomfortable.

  Overall, she felt better both physically and mentally than she had in a long time. Perhaps because the Goddess Quest was winding down, and she was enjoying a reprieve from the stress and violence. Maybe the clot-buster administered in the ER had cleaned out her system? Or maybe she liked the idea of being a "tough little bitch." She was tempted to stand in front of her full-length mirror and either ask, "Are you talking to me?" or "Are you feeling lucky, punk?"

  In the fullness of time, she slipped into her AFIRM and donned the REM-induction helmet, rejoining her avatar in the midst of an apparent nap on his deluxe memory foam bed.

  Alex sat up, brushing lint or dust from her eyes. Still in the transparent cage, surrounded by a sullen darkness.

  "Time's running out," she announced to the black void beyond the cage. "Last chance for a great deal on superheroes."

  Time slouched along. Alex was about to check out when a gruff, drawling male voice with a gravelly Midwestern gravitas rolled out of the darkness.

  "What are you offering?"

  Alex rose from the bed, turning to the voice, gooseflesh forming on her arms. She knew that voice. "Are you who I think you are?"

  "Depends what you're thinking."

  "I'm thinking, the President of the United States."

  "Beats being called an old son of a bitch." A hoarse laugh. "Yes, Mr. Milner, I am in fact the President."

  Alex stood, stunned, for several long seconds.

  "Were you serious about making a deal?" the former Minnesota governor asked.

  "Um...yes." Alex cleared her throat. "Mr. President."

  "My thought is rather than fight what seems to be the inevitable, we work with someone who's shown himself to have some moral scruples."

  Alex hoped what she was hearing was not some form of an illusion. She cleared her throat. "Sounds like a plan."

  "I will give you a general idea of what our government would find acceptable. First and foremost, a formal agreement to obey all the laws of this government and to abide by the Constitution of the United States. In return for this agreement, I am prepared to authorize that you receive this drink that you desire. Is that acceptable to you, Mr. Milner?"

  Alex was pretty sure she heard quote marks around her pseudonym.

  "I'm fine with that, Mr. President. But one problem."

  "What would that be?"

  Alex bowed her head, clenching her jaw against the tide of hope cruelly staunched.

  "You can't help me, Mr. President."

  "Why is that?"

  "Because of who you are."

  "I would have thought I am exactly the one who can help you."

  "If you do, I will be eliminated from this contest. Being helped by...someone like you would be a violation of the rules."

  "Someone in my position of authority?" The President sounded dumbfounded.

  "Someone who is...different from most of the others here." It was considered gauche – a gross violation of Verse etiquette – to identify an avatar in the presence of sims. "Any assistance from someone different in that way would result in my immediate elimination."

  Some time passed. Alex had wondered more than once if the President was the sharpest tool in the shed. Most politicians certainly weren't. But he wasn't most politicians.

  "I believe I understand," said the President. "You're under rules which prohibit assistance from certain quarters."

  "Exactly. And 'assistance' doesn't just mean direct intervention. It can also mean persuading someone to provide that assistance or any act which could be seen as helping my cause."

  After a pause, the President spoke with more confidence: "I see. And I understand that if nothing changes, the current contest will end tomorrow but will resume in a second phase with a larger group of competitors?"

  "A much larger group."

  "What are your chances for winning then?"

  "I might be slightly biased since I picked myself to win from the beginning, but as far as I know, I'm still ahead of everyone else, so yeah, I'd say they're pretty good."

  "If that happens, I would appreciate hearing from you. I would also appreciate you doing nothing to harm this great country."

  "You mean virtually great country."

  "No. I do not mean that. Our achievements here, in my opinion, are quite real." He enunciated "opinion" with a huge, open Midwestern Oh. "And I would like to continue down that path, despite any games the Grand Poobahs have seen fit to introduce into this world."

  "I'm sure the 'Grand Poobahs' wouldn't introduce anything that this country's big, bad secret government agencies couldn't handle."

  "I would prefer there were no threats that would give these agencies an excuse to become bigger and badder."

  Alex's smile drifted away as she considered the truth of that statement. What smarmy, corrupt politician once said, "Never let a good crisis go to waste"? The President hardly seemed like the dimwitted blowhard some peo
ple made him out to be.

  "I will tell you that we have eradicated every trace and record pertaining to this drink," said President Ventura. "To our knowledge, apart from the owner, only the current employees knew how to make it, and they all died in the gas attack. The laboratory at the owner's farm was destroyed, along with all the drink supplies there and at the restaurant."

  "And the owner?"

  "Apparently he succumbed to a heart attack."

  "Jesus. You had him killed?"

  "No, I did not."

  Alex decided not to dig further into the fuzzy, unstated implications of that reply. It wasn't as if she hadn't left a pile of bodies in her wake. Still, that was not how she viewed, or wanted to view, the President and his administration. The former Minnesota governor had always positioned himself as a compassionate good-old boy, a crusader for justice, truth, and personal liberty. Maybe what they said about power corrupting was true. Or perhaps it resigned a person to repugnant practicalities.

  But then, of course the President knew that they – most of them – were only sims, not real people.

  "I believe that leaves you as the only person who knows the formula," said the President.

  Alex shook herself from her silly disappointment and stared into the dark spaces where the words seemed to originate. "That doesn't seem unlikely. Too bad you can't 'eradicate' me."

  "But we could eliminate you from this contest, couldn't we?"

  "Is that what you're going to do?"

  A semi-pregnant pause.

  "No, Mr. Milner. In your case, I believe we'll just let nature take its course."

  "IT'S THE end of the world and I feel fine..."

  The REM song was stuck in Alex's head. Appropriate for the last day of the invitation-only phase of the Goddess Quest; doubly appropriate because of the group's initials.

  The last day before she waltzed back into the Verse, assembled her drink, toasted the GMs, and entered virtual godhood with one sip. That day would begin with a strategy brainstorming session with Brandon.

  "I like your outfit," said Bran

  Alex smoothed down her loose-fitting, lacy shirt where it flared past her hips, providing cover for the pistol snuggling just behind her right hip.