Freya

by Matthew Laurence

  I enter the door marked Calibration Suite 7 and find myself in what looks like a high-tech classroom. Sleek plastic desks are arranged in rows, executive office chairs on rollers behind each one. There’s a podium at the front of the room, a digital whiteboard affixed to the wall behind it, and a projector built into the ceiling. Adam Carraway, bright and chipper as always, waits by the door. He beams at me as I arrive, clearly pleased.

  “Ah, Miss Sara!” he says, sounding thrilled. “Right on time. Please take a seat anywhere and we can get started.”

  I suppress a groan as I notice Dionysus lounging in a chair on the right side of the room. He looks at me with those dancing eyes of his and grins. “Morning, gorgeous,” he says. “Sleep well?”

  “Like a baby,” I say, pointedly taking a seat on the opposite side of the room from him. “Even had a chance to wander around a bit, see the sights. Did you know there’s a beautiful lady in Corrections who’d just love to meet a dashing fellow like you?”

  “Oh, really?” he says, looking interested.

  “Third cell on the right.”

  “Umm, heh, okay, looks like we’re all here,” Adam says quickly, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of me playing matchmaker between Dionysus and an Aztec god of sex and sin. “What we’re going to do today is put you both on the path to better, stronger believers.” He clicks a remote in his hands as he moves toward the podium and the screen behind him lights up with a PowerPoint slide that reads Divine Calibration: Setting you up for success! I wonder if these presentations are provided by Finemdi or if Adam makes them himself.

  “To do that, we need to get a better idea of precisely who you are.” The slide changes to show a stick figure scratching his head while little question marks dance around him. “You see, centuries of competing myths, chronicles, and retellings have left things a little confusing for everyone. You each represent the concept of a deity, and there’s only one of you in the entire world. You’ll never see another Freya or Dionysus as long as you live … but there are hundreds of interpretations for both of you. Isn’t that strange?”

  The slide changes to a horde of illustrations of Dionysus and myself. I see him in painting and sculpture: a bearded man; a jolly, fat reveler; a lanky, smooth-skinned Grecian playboy; and so on. As for me, they’re almost all drawings: warriors and chariot riders, noblewomen surrounded by flowers, and young ladies clutching trees. There are even a few pictures of a Japanese cartoon character and stills of a sword-wielding woman from a video game. It looks like someone did a Google search and pulled any decent image they could find. I glance at Adam, noting the proud look on his face as the images animate into place; I guess that answers the question of who made the PowerPoint.

  “Somewhere along the way, enough people worshipped each of you as a deity to bring you into being. As time passed, followers new and old changed that image, adding fresh definitions and altering your appearances and personalities to match. Over the years, you’ve both been warped to fit a final prevailing mind-set—the last major vision your believers had of you before they vanished.”

  The slide changes to head shots of the two of us—the same pictures that were used to make our ID badges. “This is who you are now,” Adam says, looking up at the screen. “And this is who we’re going to have our volunteers believe in. Now, it’s not that simple, unfortunately. These days, if someone wanted to start worshipping you, they wouldn’t know where to begin. Sure, you’d be empowered by some of their belief—you’re both still one of a kind—but it wouldn’t be everything you deserve. It’s inefficient!”

  He clicks his remote and the screen changes to show our puzzled stick figure on one side, next to a bunch of arrows pointing at all the different pictures of the two of us. “What we’re going to do is get a precise idea of exactly who you are—all your perceptions, desires, motivations, and so on—and use that to build a profile that’ll help your believers target you.” The slide animates, all but one of the arrows between the stick figure and the pictures disappearing. Then all those misleading archetypes fade away until only our two head shots remain. “See? It’s a clear line from follower to god now, which means you’ll receive much more power out of fewer believers.”

  He looks at the two of us and smiles, spreading his hands. “At first we’ll just work on making you both stronger, but in time, you’ll be able to make requests and change things about yourselves! Perhaps you have a crippling vulnerability, like Achilles?” He nods at Dionysus. “Or a weakness to some common element, like Baldur?” He grins at me. “All those chinks in the armor can be removed. Or maybe you’d like a new power? Something to spice up your own set of abilities? Think about it. Weaknesses stripped away and new strengths added in their place!”

  Horrifying. I conceal my revulsion at the idea of meddling with the checks and balances with which we were born and glance over at Dionysus. His face is gleeful, mind whirling at the idea of such self-aggrandizement. Can’t say I’m surprised.

  “Pretty cool, right?” Adam says, going over to the podium and retrieving two packets of paper and some pens. “I’m going to give you both some surveys to fill out. I’d like you to be as exhaustive and honest as possible. The more precise you are, the more precisely we can believe!”

  He sets down a sheaf of papers in front of Dionysus and hands him a pen. The god of merriment snatches it from Adam’s hands and immediately begins filling out the form. Adam smiles at his enthusiasm, then walks over and places the remaining survey on the desk in front of me. “Here you are,” he says, holding out another pen.

  Cautious, I reach out and take it. Adam gives me an encouraging nod and then walks back to the podium, where he pulls out a smartphone and begins playing with it. I turn to the survey, filled with apprehension. Whatever they ask, I have to mislead them at every turn. If I’m accurate, it’ll be like painting a bull’s-eye on my chest. They’ll know just who to target for rewards or ruin.

  The survey’s long and doesn’t beat around the bush—there are no questions about my name, age, or physical traits. Instead, it launches right into detailed personal information, starting with What is your purpose? Then What are your talents? and Describe your dreams. That last one worries me, because it’s one more sign that Finemdi has an uncomfortably detailed understanding of how deities work. I decide I need to be as vague as possible while still hewing close enough to the truth to make it seem like someone who could be Freya filled out everything out. Since they already know my specialties, I’ll include them, but twisted in all the wrong ways. Question by question, a new version of me takes shape. She’s a fickle, bloodthirsty god obsessed with desire and tokens of affection, encouraging rivalries and battle in her name, reveling in the wages of war if they will lead to her exaltation. She smiles on the unpredictable and hotheaded, granting her favors to those who lead with their hearts and always preferring decisions born out of lust and emotion, never rationality.

  In short, a clichéd supervillain. They’ll eat it up. After the initial battery of questions, there’s a multiple-choice personality test, then a series of logic puzzles and hypothetical situations. I Christmas-tree the test, take a halfhearted stab at the puzzles, and answer the remaining questions as if I were a domineering baroness. Finished, I stack my survey, collect the pen, and turn it in to Adam, who seems a little surprised by how quickly I finished it. Dionysus, I see, is still hard at work, taking his time to answer each question as completely as possible.

  “Thank you for your participation,” Adam says, placing my survey in a folder marked Freya. “That’s all we need for now, so unless you have any questions, I suppose you’re free to go.”

  “Did you get my permit form?” I ask.

  Adam smacks himself on the forehead. “Oh, almost forgot! My sincere apologies, Miss Sara.” He rummages around in the pocket of his suit, then pulls out a laminated card with my picture on it.

  “It’s quite all right,” I say, taking the badge and looking it over. It reads Off-Site Permit in
large black letters at the top. I wave it at him. “Thanks, Mr. Carraway.”

  He smiles, seeming relieved I haven’t decided to rage at him for this minor oversight. I really need to have a talk with my fellow gods about being nicer to mortals. I head out of the room, suddenly left to my own devices. Where to now? I could go and check on Nathan again, but I don’t want to seem desperate. After all, if Finemdi thinks I care that much, they might use him against me. Yes, that’s why. It’s certainly not because I don’t want to see him lying there helpless, feeling guilt and a host of other emotions I’m not in the mood to analyze.

  That would just be silly.

  I have my permit now, which means I can come and go as I please, but since I’m not leaving this place until Nathan can join me, it seems my only option now is to explore further. I turn back to my not-so-helpful map and try to figure out where else I can go. Maybe the research wing? Operations command? Security control? Or perhaps one of these unlabeled areas? There are plenty of rooms on the map that don’t have any designations at all, and while I gather a lot of them are just residences, utility closets, and meeting rooms, there might be something juicy hiding in plain sight. After a bit of idly walking back and forth in the hallway, looking down at the map, frowning, trying to get my bearings, and gauging how interested I feel in exploring each area, I decide I’m turning into a stereotypical lost tourist and just pick the first thing I think of: Research. Along the way, I figure I can check out any unlabeled rooms and get the best of both worlds.

  This plan seems great in theory. I’ll get to cut through most of the complex, ferreting out all sorts of sinister plans and dark secrets. I feel excited, like I’m a private detective about to blow the lid off an evil conspiracy. Several hours later, I come to several stark realizations. First, I’ve missed lunch. I’m certain it was just as amazing as my previous meals, too, which makes its absence all the more painful. Second, exploring vast corporate complexes is incredibly boring. Nearly every room I pass is mind-numbingly utilitarian. Oh, look, a janitor’s closet. Wow, an air-conditioning hub. Always wanted to see a server farm up close. Wonderful, there’s the plumbing access. Conference rooms, staff offices, and break rooms, oh my. I swing through the residential areas and thrill to the sight of guest, guard, and god lodgings. As nice as they are, I’m glad for the permit and the freedom to stay off campus. I’d rather not spend any more time here than necessary—meals aside, of course.

  I pass random security agents, lab personnel, cleaning staff, businessmen, deities, maintenance workers, and more on my tour. None of them pay attention to me, and they all look like they’re actually doing something of value. For the first hour or two, I don’t mind this. Around hour three, however, I start feeling a little resentful. I know I don’t actually want to be confronted by anyone, nor do I really want a job here, but this is killing all my notions of what spying on an amoral company is supposed to be like. Where are the armed guards barring entry to suspicious vaults? The laser alarm systems? The air ducts I’m supposed to crawl through? This place was a whole lot more interesting in my imagination.

  Another hour passes, and the sheer scale of the facility starts to dawn on me. I’ve literally walked for miles and haven’t seen the end of it. There are multiple stories, and every floor feels like it covers the same area as a football stadium. How did they even build this place? It must have taken years. I mean, it even extends down into the basement for half a dozen sublevels, too, and while it’s mostly all just maintenance there, it’s still—

  Wait, what? Confused, I stop in midstride to examine the map more closely. This is Florida. Nobody has basements this deep in Florida. The water table here is extremely close to the surface. I look at my map again, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. This place is gigantic. I don’t care how far off the beaten path you are; there’s no way you can just build something this big and not have anyone get the least bit curious. I pull out my Mim and go to the local map, telling it to show me where I am. A blue dot appears just off Landstreet Road in the southeastern Orlando area.

  “Magic,” I say at last, narrowing my eyes at the facility map in my other hand. They have some fancy spells at work here, making the interior a lot bigger than it looks from the outside. That’s how they can cram so much—including all those subterranean levels—onto a regular parcel of land and not have anyone realize what’s going on. I look at my Mim’s map again, zooming in to get an idea of how big Impulse Station’s lot is. Judging by the little access roads on either side, it’s just a handful of acres. Setting aside room for parking spaces, whatever’s visible from the outside can’t be larger than a basic warehouse—and oh my gods I know how to destroy them.

  I barely manage to hold on to my phone as triumph roars through me. My lips pull back in a wicked smile, and I stagger against the wall for support. This is too good. If I can pull it off, well … it’s going to be spectacular. I think I can do it, too. Magic is, after all, part of my portfolio. I just need some time to plan it out, but if I’m right about this, the results will be more than worth the wait.

  Satisfied my tedious explorations haven’t been in vain, I place my Mim back in my bag and continue on to the Research wing. Plenty of other unlabeled rooms call to me on the journey, but I ignore them—I feel I have what I need from this day already, and I’m not going to waste another second wandering around and poking my head into nondescript office spaces.

  It’s sometime in the midafternoon when I finally reach the labs. These are spread across multiple floors, but it seems like they share a lot of vertical space, probably to make a quarantine go more smoothly. The section I’m closest to is labeled Hybridization Control. Fun. There’s another spot on the map called Belief Indoctrination nearby, but I have a feeling any investigations there are just going to end with me staring sadly at a roomful of sedated dreamers wearing creepy helmets.

  The rest of the wing includes a few more enticing names, but they’re even farther away, and I’ve already had my fill of wandering, so Hybridization Control it is. I reach the entrance in a few dozen steps, stopping when I notice the name of the section stenciled on the wall beside an unassuming metal door. I frown at the simplicity of the entrance, worrying this will end up just as boring as every other place I’ve passed today. Only one way to find out, I suppose. I swipe my key card across the access panel and get rewarded with a savage bleep of negation. Locked out. Well, I know how to handle this—all I need to do is wait for some errant worker to come by and charm them into holding the door open for a poor, helpless goddess who just wants to see the sights.

  I lean against the wall beside the door, cooling my heels. My plan starts to feel less and less brilliant as the minutes tick by. After what seems like ages, I pull out my Mim and look at the time. Four o’clock? Where did the day go? Someone better show up soon, because I only have an hour left until they start serving dinner. That, and I want to be back in Recovery around six so I can see if Nathan’s awake and, if so, hit the cafeteria with him before we head back to the apartment. Another ten minutes crawl by before I hear someone coming. Voices. No, wait, it’s a single voice, bouncing off the walls around me, coming from behind me. It sounds masculine, so I put on my “distressed cutie” face—look, gender bias can be useful sometimes—and wait eagerly for its owner to make an appearance.

  Moments before my mystery guest rounds the corner, I stiffen as I recognize who’s speaking. “—don’t care what your excuses are, I want a full history before I go back out there! I nearly got myself killed the last time, and do you know whose fault it was?”

  Garen. He’s coming this way. I need to make myself scarce now. My shoes skid on the linoleum as I bolt for the far end of the hall, hoping I can make it before he rounds the bend.

  “The what?!” he yells. “If the requisitions officer knew what I was getting myself into, he wouldn’t have given me class-one garbage! No! It’s your fault I didn’t have the intel I needed, because guess what: That’s the name of your damn dep
artment!”

  I almost fall as I round the bend, flats clacking on the cheap floor as I whip to the side and screech to a halt. Breathing hard, I stagger against the corner and hug the wall, praying he didn’t spot me. I can still hear his footsteps getting closer, but did I hide in time?

  “Fine!” he shouts. “That’s fine. Yeah, I’ll just—yes, I’m going to file a complaint!” A pause. “Well, I don’t care if there weren’t any signs. This is your damn job! No, I don’t—” He sighs, and I hear a fist smack against the wall. “Look, I have to go. Yeah. All right. Mm-hm. Trust me, it’s mutual.”

  He grumbles to himself, followed by the sound of him pocketing the phone. I breathe a sigh of relief. There’s no sign I’ve been noticed. Then I hear the whisper of plastic on fabric and a tiny clatter as he slots a key card into the door. He’s actually going inside? I pop my head around the corner in time to watch Garen yank on the door’s handle and wrench it open. He stalks inside without a moment’s hesitation, letting the door slap against the wall from the force of his pull. It’s wide open. Well, Sara? What’s it going to be: Follow your nemesis into the diabolical laboratory or wait outside and play it safe? I watch the door begin to swing back, closing slowly on its hinges.

  What the hell.

  I launch myself down the corridor, shoes squeaking on linoleum as I race pell-mell for the rapidly closing portal. At the last second, I catch the handle, stumbling a little against the doorway as I struggle to keep it open and not pitch face-first onto the floor in the process. Phew. Reminding myself to invest in a pair of decent running shoes, I stand up and pull the door open. There’s no sign of Garen, but a short hallway beckons to me. Quietly, I slip inside.

  The building materials here are all noticeably nicer. The floors are made from some sort of glossy tile, the walls have an enameled look, and the lighting is less harsh. I move farther down the hall and see it ends in a T intersection. As I draw nearer, I hear a click from the right side—I guess that’s where Garen went. Everything’s so sleek and minimalist I feel like I’ve walked onto the set of a technology commercial.