Freya

by Matthew Laurence

  Nervously, I pad to the edge of the hall and peer around the corner. There’s a thick metal door about ten feet down. A sign above it reads INCUBATION. Figuring I’m not in any danger at the moment, I straighten up and walk to the door. It’s very sturdy-looking, but there’s no key card reader, so I shrug and test the handle, which turns without complaint. I open the door a crack and peek into the next area, then immediately slide it closed. Garen’s in there, standing in some sort of strange changing room. When I glanced at him, he was pulling on a pair of white coveralls over his gray suit, zipping them up over his chest. The getup looked like something you’d see high-tech painters or asbestos removers wearing. I listen at the door until I hear him leave, then slip into the room.

  There are rows of those same white coveralls hanging along the back wall, divided into size categories. The changing table across from them has hairnets, a box of gloves, face masks, and plastic slipcovers for your feet. I take it all in, then shrug and pick out a set for myself. If anything, wearing this stuff will help me blend in. It takes a couple of minutes to put everything on, but when I’m done, there’s no way you could tell it was me—with the coveralls’ hood up and a surgical mask drawn over my nose and mouth, my eyes are the only part of me showing. That just leaves my bag, which doesn’t exactly go with the rest of my ensemble. I stare at it blankly for a few seconds before heading over to the rack of coveralls, moving a few of them to the side, and bending down to shove the bag in the corner. There. Once I let the outfits swing back into place, it’s impossible to see the bag. That should work.

  Hoping I haven’t lost Garen completely, I open the inner door to reveal a sprawling laboratory. Researchers in getups just like mine are hunched over workbenches, probably hard at work uncovering secrets man was not meant to know.

  At first I wonder how in the world I’m ever going to find Garen here among all these identical workers. Before I have a chance to begin looking, however, his grating, arrogant voice comes to me from just a few rows down. “Wait, this calls for another set to be extracted tomorrow,” he says angrily, holding up a clipboard and speaking to another scientist. “Isn’t that a bit soon?”

  The man, about a head shorter than Garen, is looking up at him and glaring. “I don’t recall you getting a say in our schedule,” he says, snatching the clipboard out of Garen’s hands. “And to be quite frank, I’m sick of you acting like we’re just a different set of grunts to boss around. Kindly remember you are here as a favor, nothing more, and if I have to put up with one more minute of idiotic posturing from you, I will seriously consider revoking your clearance to enter these labs. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I actually have responsibilities to attend to around here.”

  “Dr. Vargleiss, please, I—” Garen begins.

  “Save it!” the man snaps. With that, he storms off, leaving Garen sputtering in silence. I try to fight it, but I can’t keep an enormous smile from spreading across my face. I turn away on the off chance my attention will get me noticed. That was immensely satisfying. When I look back, Garen’s already moving in a different direction, away from the little supervisor with the Napoleon complex. I do my best to follow him without raising suspicion, taking a leisurely walk between workbenches, chemical baths, and lab tables. Every now and then, I bend over and pretend to inspect random cell cultures and whatever else they’re brewing. Finally, Garen reaches the far end of the lab, walks to another door, pulls it open, and heads inside. I go to follow, wait a moment for him to get a little farther away, then slip in after him.

  I’ve entered another hallway, and this one makes me feel like I’m in more of a nursing home than a lab. On both sides, there are patient suites visible through large panes of glass. They’re all empty, blinds pulled back to reveal identical hospital beds, IV stands, EKG monitors, and other equipment. I walk past a half-dozen rooms like this, glancing into each one, before I have to pull back and hide. Garen’s in one near the end of the hall, and I think it may be the only one that’s occupied.

  I sneak over to peer in the window. He’s leaning over the bed, looking strangely forlorn. There’s a woman lying there in a hospital gown, a blanket pulled halfway up her chest. An IV snakes into her arm, delivering milky-white poison straight into her bloodstream. She’s still conscious despite it, staring at Garen and talking to him in a weakened voice. My hearing is barely good enough to pick up their conversation.

  “—like you’ve had a rough day,” the woman in the bed says. You’re one to talk, I think. She looks like she’s been through the wringer; her skin is pale and waxy, her long auburn hair sprawls limply on the pillow, and her face seems taut and pained. Even so, I can see she was once beautiful. Though she looks like she’s in her midtwenties, she has a wise, motherly disposition and firm, commanding features.

  Garen sighs and, in a startling display of humanity for such an unrepentant jackass, brushes a few strands of her hair back from her forehead. “Rough month,” he replies.

  “You ever catch that little Vanir girl you were looking for?” she asks.

  He nods. “Yeah, we got her,” he says softly.

  She smiles, reaching up with a trembling hand to brush his cheek. It’s such a warm, friendly gesture that my mind rebels at the idea of anyone using it on Garen. “Then why so glum?” she asks, frowning.

  He looks away, turning to the bank of machines that monitor her vitals. “Because you’re still here,” he says. “I thought she’d be similar enough, that maybe they’d—” He shakes his head. “I don’t know why I keep getting my hopes up. No matter how many I bring them, you’ll still be here, and—”

  “Shh,” she says, patting him on the back. “Shh. It is what it is. Why dwell on it?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” he says, turning back to look at her. To my deepest shock, I see his eyes are shining with tears.

  “Well, I’ve given them hundreds of their little ‘hybrids’ over the years, and you’re the only one who seems to care,” she says, shrugging a little.

  “That doesn’t make it better, Mom,” he says, his voice cracking.

  Mom? The woman in the bed doesn’t get a chance to respond, because I’m so shocked by this that I stumble a little against the glass, making enough noise to draw their attention. The woman just raises her eyebrows, peering at me curiously, but Garen whips around, furious, and fixes me with a stare that could freeze a star.

  “Can’t you see I’m busy?” he barks.

  “I—um, sorry, I just…” I mumble, trying to think of an excuse. “Dr. Vargleiss sent me to tell you he doesn’t want you upsetting the, um, patient, sir.”

  This only seems to enrage him further. “Upsetting her? That jumped-up son of a—”

  “Language,” the woman in the bed says, a bit of steel in her voice despite her damaged state.

  Garen bites off his words and sighs. “Sorry, sorry.” He composes himself, then picks up her hand and holds it for a moment. He looks at her sadly, then nods and turns to me. “Fine, I get it. He doesn’t want me around,” he says, harsher than I’ve ever heard him before. “I’ll go for now, but you can tell him I’ll be back to see her no matter what he says. I’ll use a tank if I have to.” With that, he gently sets down the woman’s hand and leaves her room, glaring at me as he passes.

  “Y-yes, sir,” I say, flattening myself against the wall.

  I turn to watch him leave. He doesn’t even glance back—just reaches the end of the hall, flings the door open with a bang, and marches out. I let out a breath, thankful he didn’t realize who I was.

  “You’re quite the actress.” The woman’s voice drifts out of the room behind me. Okay, so Garen might not have seen through my disguise, but she, on the other hand …

  I spin around. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  “The meek-assistant act. It’s very good. Hard for a goddess to pretend she’s something she’s not. I should know,” she says, lifting a quavering hand and beckoning me to join her.

  “You could tell?” I ask, entering the
room cautiously.

  She rolls her eyes at me. “Like you can’t sense divinity when it’s close.”

  I smile at that. “Fair enough.”

  “So who might you be?” she asks. “Can’t say I’ve seen another god in … oh … some time.”

  I briefly consider lying to her. She didn’t rat me out to Garen, though, so I figure I might as well be courteous. “Freya. Though I prefer Sara these days.”

  “Aah,” she says, eyes gleaming. “The famous Vanir. Gave my boy quite the chase, didn’t you? According to him, you were very … stubborn.”

  “Yeah,” I say, moving closer. “Though in my defense, he didn’t really make me feel like I had much of a choice.”

  “No, I suppose he wouldn’t have,” she says, sighing. “He’s not a bad person, Sara. He’s just trying to square things in his life. Make amends.”

  I sit on the bed beside her. This definitely doesn’t sound like the Garen I know. “For what?” I ask.

  “Me, mostly,” she says. My confusion must show on my face, because she laughs. “Oh, you must be full of questions. But I suppose introductions are in order, first.” She clears her throat. “I am Nantosuelta, of Gaul. Nature, earth, fertility, that sort of thing. Just call me Nan.”

  “Gaul?” I ask.

  “Before your time. Celtics and such. We bit it early on, when the Romans came,” she says, grimacing. A trembling hand rises toward me. “Pleased to meet you, all the same.”

  I clasp her hand in mine, feel the weakness in her, thin bones shifting under pale skin. This is a severely damaged god. “And I you,” I say, trying not to let my pity show.

  “So what do you think of Finemdi?” she asks, returning her hand to the blankets.

  I pause, looking around, and she recognizes my hesitation immediately. “Oh, don’t worry—they’re not listening,” she says. “My boy cleared this room ages ago.”

  “Oh,” I say. “In that case, I think they’re twisted monsters who need to burn.”

  She chuckles softly. “That they are, Sara. That they are.” She takes a deep breath, a wheezy inhalation that doesn’t quite seem to fill her lungs. “And you don’t even know the half of it, I’m sure. Well, I can give you your answers, but you know what they say—be careful what you wish for.”

  “Tell me, Nan,” I say, edging closer. “I never was one for warnings.”

  She grins. “Figured as much. Well, do you know where we are? The name of this wing?”

  I pause for a moment, thoughts returning to the map. “Hybridization Control, I think.”

  “Right. Sounds so nice and clinical, doesn’t it? Any guesses as to what kind of hybrids they’re making here?”

  I feel myself grow very cold. “You mean … no,” I say, mouth dropping as I look down at her, aghast. “Tell me they’re not…”

  “Of course they are,” she says. “Children of the gods receive many benefits: stronger, smarter, limited magic use, all sorts of good stuff. Partially solves the recruiting problem, too. Who needs to worry about résumés and job fairs when you can just breed your own workforce? It’s been their policy for centuries now, though they’ve only perfected it in the past few decades.”

  I feel like I’m about to throw up. “They make you—”

  “Oh no, no, not with this vile sludge keeping me weak,” she says, gesturing at the IV drip beside her. “Can’t carry anything to term like that. No, they just harvest what they need from me, then get a surrogate to finish the job.” She pauses, taking in my reaction. “There. Told you it wasn’t going to be pretty. Enjoy your righteous anger.”

  “So Garen—”

  “Half god, yes. And so far the only one of my children who seems the least bit upset about it. Interesting boy. That’s why he was so keen on getting you—on getting any new fertility goddess, really. He hopes he can persuade them to swap me out, put a replacement here. I guess he never got the chance; you decided to work with them after all, didn’t you?”

  I nod. “Only way I could see to get revenge,” I say in a trembling voice. No wonder he was so upset when I took his offer. This also explains his incredibly vile attitude toward me. He was never really trying to get me to join Finemdi; he just wanted me so blindingly angry I’d refuse anything, forcing them to take me prisoner. All of it was an act, performed on the off chance he could persuade his superiors to release his mother and put me in her place. I can’t say this makes him any less despicable in my eyes, but it does put a new spin on things.

  “Smart girl,” she says. “They’re not very nice with the ones who refuse their pitches, as you can see.” She gestures at herself with a feeble flap of one hand.

  “So this is just … punishment?” I ask. “I mean, why else would they do this? A male god would be—”

  “Much easier, yes. Of course they use them. And yes, this is, to a certain extent, a punishment for some rather”—her lips curl in a wicked smile—“inventive acts of rebellion on my part. There are other reasons, too. I believe they like variety in their stock. Perhaps they’re trying to breed demigods, as well. It may also be because they are soulless, amoral scum. I don’t ask why anymore. The answers never change anything.”

  “I’m getting you out of here,” I snap, feeling the Valkyrie in my heart howl for blood, for death in the face of this mind-boggling injustice.

  “Pfft. Don’t bother,” she says. “My time is done. Decades of this filth have left me a shell of what I once was,” she says, gesturing at the drip again.

  I reach out, aiming to tear it from her skin, but she pulls her arm away, shaking her head. “Enchanted,” she explains. “Hercules would have trouble with it. Besides, its work is done. Rescuing me will solve nothing. But … if you are dead set on doing me a favor, then there are two things I will ask of you.”

  “Name them,” I say without hesitation.

  “If you truly believe you can succeed in razing this place, then please include me in that destruction. I want to die—to be free of this broken shell and this tedious suffering.”

  I open my mouth to object, but she silences me with a glare. “You can’t imagine what it’s like to sit and wait, alone, for someone to come and slice you open and remove the very thing you were created to cherish, constantly, for years. Kill me, Sara, and maybe one day I will have new believers and they will rebuild me, grant me a new body and a new life.”

  I stare at her, both moved by the gravity of her request and dismayed by how woefully reasonable it seems. This poor woman.

  “You have my word,” I say after a moment, trying not to let her hear the pity in my heart.

  She gives me a vague smile, seeming to relax. “My second request won’t be as easy to follow, but if you can, well, I’d like you to try not to kill Garen. He’s not bad. Just … hurt.”

  I was afraid she might say something like that. But it sounds like she understands what she’s asking. To change the mind of a god on the path of vengeance is no mean feat. We are, by nature, more inclined to punish than forgive. “I—I will try, Nan. But you’re right—it will be hard. He hates gods so much, and if he survives and realizes it was my hand that released you, he will never stop hunting me.”

  She nods, closing her eyes. “I know. Trying … is all I ask.”

  “Why does he hate us so much?” I ask. “Why not Finemdi? They are the ones that did this to you, aren’t they?”

  Her lips twitch. “To Garen, Finemdi is playing the hand it has been dealt. They are doing everything in their power to right what he sees as a terrible wrong—the creation of gods. The fact that I am his mother is, perhaps, part of this view, because as he sees it, if there were no more gods, then there would be no more need for me to be here, to be punished.” She opens her eyes to give me a bleak, painful stare. “He blames you for this, not Finemdi. For him, every god in existence has played a role in my torture simply by existing, by unbalancing the world through their very nature. He believes there will always be a need for something like Finemdi to exist, always b
e a need for someone to rein in the heavens … but he does not believe there must always be gods. That is why he follows them, and why he despises you.”

  “That’s insane.”

  She shrugs. “He has been burned, yet rather than blame the arsonist, he has chosen to blame the fire, because once the fire is gone, well…”

  “No one will ever be burned again,” I finish. I’m silent for a moment, trying to add this to what I know of Garen. “Still, to work for the people who enslaved his own mother…”

  “Imagine you are born here, Sara,” she says. “Finemdi is all you know. The company is your caregiver, your home, your family. You’re raised to believe in their goals, and for years, you hunt dangerous, callous, and depraved gods. You make the world a better place. You feel complete. Then one day you wonder where you came from. You do a little research, and you find your mother, and she’s right here, at home. She’s a horrible, nasty goddess, of course, but you’re curious. So you go meet her, and she’s not dangerous at all. She’s just this broken old woman who still loves you, in spite of it all.” She pauses, and gives me a sad look. “Now what do you do?”

  “I—I can’t begin—” I stammer. How horrible. Despite my hatred for her son, I can’t help pitying him, just a little. No one should have to be in such a situation, not even him.

  “You really have two choices, don’t you?” she continues. “Turn your back on everything you’ve ever known for a mother who’s barely been in your life, or keep working for, as you said, the people who enslaved her.”

  “And he chose the second,” I say, feeling a little of my anger return.

  “Not exactly,” she says with a tiny smile. “He still thinks he can find a way to free me. He thinks he can have his cake and eat it, too—that Finemdi will see reason and he’ll keep the mother he loves and the job that makes him feel whole. In his heart of hearts, he thinks he’s doing the right thing.”