Freya

by Matthew Laurence

  I pull the door closed and lean my head against it, taking some deep breaths. Wow. Okay, so they have a lot of spells running through this place. I’m a little confused as to why they would pick a single room to be the source for all of them since it’s a bit like putting their eggs in one basket, but then I realize the only one who could even see these things is another god, and if there’s a god wandering free inside the building, the automatic assumption is that they’re friendly. Besides, I’m getting a migraine just standing here. If these were scattered throughout the complex, they’d probably have gods tripping over them left and right.

  Well, one more spell won’t go amiss. I’ll just add my time-delayed disjunction magic and be on my way. I can only imagine the chaos that will result when it eventually goes off. The shattering of dozens of wards alone will probably make things very hectic, but I know there has to be one spell in here in particular that’s going to cause some real problems for Impulse Station when I kill it. I steel myself and fling open the door, facing down the madhouse of magic beyond. The trigger word is on my lips when I hear a sharp whistle to my left.

  I spin and my jaw drops. Garen’s standing there, grinning at me with that disgusting smirk of his. He’s in his standard gray suit, but his right hand is clasped around a new accessory: a gorgeous trident plated in gold and polished to a razor shine. He’s not alone, either; there are a half-dozen Finemdi mercenaries in full assault gear behind him, machine guns pointed at me. He raises his trident and tips it toward me like it’s some demented fairy godmother’s wand.

  “Gotcha,” he says softly.

  15

  WANT OF A NAIL

  “Didn’t we go through this already?” I say, turning to Garen and putting my hands on my hips.

  “Thank you, Freya,” he says, spinning his trident in one hand. “I was going out of my mind wondering when you’d slip up. Knew it was just a matter of time.”

  “I wasn’t aware exploring storage closets was a crime.”

  “Just happened to pick this closet, did you?” He rolls his eyes. “Not that it matters. I have enough evidence to put you away even without prowling around our warding nexus.”

  “Is that what this is?” I say, jerking a thumb at the roiling mass of spells to my right. “And here I was looking for more shampoo.”

  He laughs. “It is my great pleasure to report that, per standard protocol, you will now be detained until an executive is able to review my evidence and make a formal judgment,” he says, lowering the trident to point at me. “It is my even greater pleasure to add that, because of your belligerence and disorderly conduct when confronted, I was forced to take you down.”

  Energy begins to gather between the prongs of the trident, glowing white-hot. I glance at the closet beside me, its door wide open, and whisper, “Chester White.” I visualize the knot of magic as the epicenter of my spell and repeat two hours two hours two hours two hours in my head, hoping I’ll be conscious by that time.

  Garen frowns, and the flow of energy on his trident ebbs for a moment. “What?” he says.

  An awkward silence descends. “It’s a breed of pig, sir,” one of the mercenaries behind him says after a moment. Judging by his physique and tanned skin, he strikes me as someone who probably spent some time on a farm at one point.

  Garen turns to glare at the man, who shrugs. “Is that supposed to be an insult?” he says at last, returning his gaze to me.

  I hold up my hands. “Sure,” I say. “Why not?”

  He sneers. The trident’s energy blazes back to full strength, a flickering strobe of power. It stays like that for a moment, casting epileptic shadows on the walls around us, before lashing out at me in a scintillating flare of light. My world gets very bright for the briefest of instances and then, shortly thereafter, very dark.

  * * *

  When reality swims back, I find myself in that same gray-tiled holding room I saw when I first awoke in Impulse Station. Once again, I’m lying on a gurney, restrained by thick metal bands. At least the IV drip is gone. I’ve been ratcheted up to a forty-five-degree incline this time, and the first thing I see when I open my eyes is Nathan, lying directly across from me in a similar setup, unconscious.

  Then Garen’s head leans into view, smiling at me with that intensely punchable grin of his. “Sleep well?” he asks. I notice he still has his trident in one hand.

  “Been raiding Neptune’s footlocker?” I say, ignoring his question.

  “Oh, this?” he says, giving the trident a spin. “Another toy from Hephaestus, actually. I think he just likes the shape.”

  “So is there a particular reason I’m back here, or do you also ‘just like the shape’?” I ask, glancing down at myself. They didn’t take the time to put me in one of those weird backless hospital gowns again, so I’m in the clothes I was wearing when they knocked me out: a teal chiffon blouse and gray jeans. I’d normally consider it quite flattering, but I’ve just started the countdown clock to destruction—if this is really going to turn into my final assault on Impulse Station, I’m annoyed I don’t have the tactical catsuit I specifically ordered for it. Now I’m going to look like a high schooler at her first job interview instead of a deadly commando. This is just embarrassing.

  Garen rolls his eyes at my comment. “Yes, yes, you’re a very pretty goddess. We’re all so impressed. No, you’re here because of this.” He reaches out of view to my right and pulls back a thick manila folder. Then he leans his trident against my gurney and removes a glossy color photo from the folder, holding it out at me. “Look familiar?” It’s a security camera shot of me speaking to Sekhmet.

  “Or this?” he says, pulling out another. This time, it’s me getting into the white coveralls in the Hybridization Control changing room. “Stop me whenever you see something you recognize.” He flips through more, showing a bloodied Samantha Drass leaving a supply closet and me heading out shortly thereafter. A shot of me outside Incubation, hiding around the corner from him. There I am opening random doors on various levels, making notes in hallways on my Mim, deep in conversation with the Hawaiian sisters (key card on the table in front of us, of course), and other generally suspicious snapshots.

  “Can’t blame a girl for being curious,” I say lightly.

  “Actually, we can,” Garen says, slapping the folder closed. “You’re obviously a god on a mission—the simple fact that you’re acting unlike any other deity we’ve ever recruited would be cause for alarm, but these things you’re doing? They’re downright strange, Freya. Finemdi doesn’t like strange.” He jabs me in the ribs with one finger. “And you’re not going to like what’s coming.”

  I glare at him. “Well, Garen, what could they possibly do to me? Maybe tie me down and cut out bits of my body to spawn new minions?” His grin fades, and he just stares at me. Ooh, yes, that hit home. “Where are the pictures of me and Nantosuelta?” I say, trying to see how many of his buttons I can press. “All those years of poison make her a little too grim for your evidence packet?”

  “That will be enough, Freya,” he says, clearly strained.

  “You’re the son of a god, Garen. Nothing you ever do will change that,” I say.

  “I don’t care,” he snaps, leaning in close. “Your kind are a blight on this world. Do you realize the wars you’ve caused? The bloodshed and suffering? So you met my mother. Bra-vo. You must be tickled pink by all that amazing detective work. But in between patting yourself on the back and deciding you’ve found one more reason to hate us, did you ever consider that if it wasn’t for you, she wouldn’t be there?”

  “That is Finemdi’s doing and no one else’s,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at him. “Their poison, their bonds, their knives. You’re working for the people who tortured—”

  “You think you’re so damn clever,” he spits, cutting me off. “Centuries in age, magic, the belief of fools … you think all that gives you some great insight, you arrogant parasite?” He pushes away from me and stalks into the center of the r
oom, standing in front of Nathan. “My mother’s life, her fall from glory, her punishment … all of it is because of the meddling of gods. Who destroyed her pantheon? Who hounded her over the centuries, ripping away her worshippers one by one? You think Finemdi tore her down?” He slams a hand onto the table beside him. “You will never stop your war with each other, Freya. You will never stop hungering for belief, and my mother and the rest of humanity will never stop suffering for it. Am I to blame the only people in the world who see you for who you truly are?” He sighs, seeming exhausted. “If I were that shortsighted, I’d have no one left.”

  I don’t suppose I ever really thought he’d listen to reason. He’s too far gone, lost in the back alleys of revenge and despair, and I don’t have the strength or desire to pull him out. I shrug as best I can in the restraints. “Do you honestly have anyone now?”

  He looks at me, and for one fleeting instant, I see the haggard son who’s just trying to do right by a mother who’s almost faded from this world. Then his expression hardens. “I don’t have the luxury of needing others, Freya. That, I believe, is your specialty,” he says, and shoots a hand back to indicate Nathan. “I have a goal, and a means to reach it. That’s more than most can say.”

  Insults and boasts. No surprises there. “Well, let’s talk about what else you have, Garen,” I say, deciding to lead the conversation elsewhere. “Specifically, do you have the time?”

  He frowns at me, then looks down at his watch. “Just after four,” he says, suspicious.

  I left the lunchroom around two o’clock, so if I had to guess, my spell is going to activate sometime in the next half hour. Good. At least I’ll be conscious for it. “Thanks,” I say. “Wouldn’t want to miss dinner.”

  He snorts. “You really think you’re getting out of this, don’t you?”

  “Those pictures don’t prove anything,” I lie, knowing in my heart Finemdi is far too paranoid about its gods to let something like this slide.

  “Believe it or not, your opinion doesn’t count for much,” he says. “You and your friend here will be confined until an executive can review the evidence”—he leans in and gives the manila folder a mocking wave just inches from my face—“and then you’ll be locked up forever, like you’re supposed to be.”

  “Right. So we just wait here until your ‘executive’ decides to make an appearance?” I make a face. “This can’t be much fun for you, either.”

  “It most certainly can,” Garen says, laughing quietly. He checks his watch again. “And he was supposed to be here at four, but I’m not surprised he’s late—executives are busy people.”

  “Must be a full-time job, dissecting gods,” I say.

  For a moment, he looks like he’s going to rise to the bait, but then he just shakes his head and moves away, setting the folder back down and taking his trident with him. He starts to pace the room, giving the weapon in his hands an occasional spin. A few minutes pass like this before the silence is broken by Nathan, who inhales deeply and opens his eyes with a moan.

  “Ow,” he says, looking around unsteadily before focusing on me. “Hey,” he murmurs, a smile on his lips. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “I know, right?” I say.

  He winces. “I’m glad to see you. I had this awful dream. Thugs broke into our apartment and knocked me out.”

  “Did they drag you to their evil lair and clamp you to a gurney?” I ask, returning his smile as I let him know exactly where we are.

  “How did you guess?” he says, chuckling weakly. “So what’s up?”

  “This and that,” I say. “I’m pretty focused on this whole ‘getting captured and interrogated’ thing right now. Garen seems to think I’m plotting something.” I tilt my head in his direction.

  “Oh, hey, didn’t see you there!” Nathan says, looking at the man with a big smile. “Nice to officially meet you.”

  “A real treat, I’m sure,” Garen says.

  “So you’re the bad guy?” Nathan asks.

  “This isn’t a movie,” Garen says, smirking at him. “Is there a man on earth who actually thinks he’s the villain?”

  “All in the eye of the beholder, I guess,” Nathan replies.

  “Has to be,” Garen agrees. “Am I the bad guy to you, kid?”

  Nathan looks him up and down. “You still want to hurt Sara?”

  “I’m not a sadist,” Garen says. “I want her locked up, gone from this world, sure. Whether she gets hurt in the process is entirely up to her.”

  Nathan smiles at that. “Up to her,” he repeats. “Right. So, on the off chance she’d actually prefer to be free … would you hurt her to keep her here?”

  Garen nods. “In a heartbeat.”

  “Then yes, absolutely,” Nathan says, his smile vanishing. “You’re the bad guy.”

  “I’m crushed,” Garen says, sounding anything but. He moves to another table on the far side of the room, and I notice my bag is lying on top of it. He opens it and begins to poke around, frowning as he pulls out the carpenter’s level. He holds it up and looks at me with a puzzled expression.

  “The television in my room was crooked,” I say.

  “Sure it was,” he murmurs, returning the level to my bag. He looks down at his watch again, clearly frustrated by the executive’s delay.

  “Maybe your boss had better things to do,” I say. “Tell you what: Let us go for now, and we can always catch up another time. It’s not like I’m guilty anyway.”

  “Wow, a cocky god,” Garen says, smiling. “Let me get my camera.”

  “I’m just saying this is a waste of time for both of us,” I reply. “Besides, don’t you get tired of fighting? Ever want to take a vacation? See some fjords or something?”

  “What, do you get paid every time you plug Scandinavia?” he asks, seeming amused.

  “Enjoy the midnight sun, hike the mountains, go kayaking…” I say, playing along. “Ask me about travel packages and group discounts.”

  He gives a genuine laugh at that, and I’m surprised how different it sounds compared with when he’s trying to make me mad. From my chat with Nantosuelta, I know Clichéd-Scumbag Garen is an act on his part, but realizing there’s a sense of humor beneath that mask is kind of shocking.

  “You know, I honestly wish I could,” he says, staring absently at his trident. “Finemdi’s great with annual vacation time, but being on call twenty-four seven really forces you to stay close to home.”

  “Careful, you might actually start making me think of you as a human being,” I say.

  “Half god,” he says softly. “No worries there.”

  “Yeah, how do you square that with your whole ‘Grr, gods bad’ shtick?”

  He shrugs. “You’re supposed to know the hearts of man. How many people actually make it through life without the occasional hit of self-loathing? I just have a head start.”

  “I’m not sure why I’m asking my evil captor this,” Nathan says, speaking up, “but have you ever tried therapy? Sounds like you have a lot to deal with.”

  “Eh. This works pretty well, to be honest,” Garen says, giving his trident another spin.

  I’m actually enjoying this little verbal sparring match of ours, so it’s a mild disappointment when the door swings open, interrupting the conversation. Gideon Drass, CEO of Finemdi, strides into the room.

  “Specialist,” he says, nodding at Garen. He turns to me and walks closer. “And this is our troublemaker?” I wasn’t all that impressed when I saw him in the hallway a few weeks ago, but now that I know who he is—and what he’s done—I take the opportunity to examine him a little more closely.

  On the surface, he’s rather plain. I could see him fitting in with the crowd at a football match or tipping back a pint at a local bar. But if you know to look deeper, a sense of deliberation and skill becomes apparent. His movements are economical and planned, as if he’s keenly aware of his body. He’s dangerous, I realize, perhaps far more than Garen, because unlike my gray-suited ne
mesis, he’s extraordinarily good at hiding it. I lock eyes with him, staring into those pale green irises of his, and feel like I’m meeting another god. He has that same sense of age and detachment, like nothing can surprise him anymore.

  “Freya, yes?” he says, staring at me. “What has she done now?”

  Garen slips around him, grabs the manila folder, and holds it out. “We think she’s planning something, sir.”

  Drass begins riffling through the photos, pausing every so often to look at me. “What’s this with my daughter?” he asks at last, flipping around the one of Samantha leaving the supply closet.

  “Lab accident,” I say immediately. I’d already thought about what to say if anyone asked me about this, though I never expected it to be her father. I figure staying close to the truth without actually describing it will be most effective, though I’m still terrified of implicating her. “Something she was testing went off, activated her little Ahriman teleport effect. She seemed annoyed but managed to fix herself up with a screwdriver in the supply closet.”

  “Yes, Ms. Drass turned in a report to that effect, though she left out meeting Freya,” Garen says. “I don’t have it on hand, but apparently an artifact from one of our dig sites overloaded somehow. More to the point, I’d like you to note how this incident fits into Freya’s pattern of investigations. When we picked her up today, she was in front of the complex’s warding nexus. She’s clearly trying to discover the inner workings of Impulse Station.”

  “And why is that?” Drass asks, directing the question at me.

  “I’m just exploring, sir,” I say, using an airheaded, flattering tone for him. Over his shoulder, I see Garen shake his head. “I wanted to know more about this place—that’s all.”

  Drass grunts at that and begins shuffling through the photos again. “Just exploring, eh?” he says as he finishes. “That was a security pass on the table between you four. And you looked like you were trying very hard to hide from Specialist Garen, there.”